


Chosen to Not Fade Away

by buffy_and_spike



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics 1998), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics 2019), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Developing Relationship, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Past Relationship(s), Platonic Relationships, Plot, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Smut, Souled Spike (BtVS), The Scooby Gang (BtVS), Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 43,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26092600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffy_and_spike/pseuds/buffy_and_spike
Summary: When the Scoobies show up in L.A. to fight alongside Angel in battle, Buffy learns that Spike is alive. On their way back to Cleveland's Hellmouth, the gang and what's left of Angel Investigations finally decide to join forces - but how long will it last?A BTVS season 8/AtS season 6 rewrite.
Relationships: Faith Lehane/Willow Rosenberg, Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 35
Kudos: 147





	1. Angel Investigations-ish

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like, you can follow my fanfic account at @chosentonotfadeaway on instagram!

Moments before the words “let’s go to work” thrust the gang into battle, Spike is reminded of his last apocalypse in Sunnydale - the one where a flashy piece of jewelry around his neck turned into the sun and he died defending a world he spent a couple lifetimes resenting. It wasn’t until Spike met a certain blonde slayer that he began looking at humanity differently, as something he might try helping instead of hurting. 

Being a part of Buffy Summers’ life was, without a doubt, the most defining period of his 100+ years on earth. His short time in the dinky, cursed town of Sunnydale, California was responsible for showing him the importance of love, family, friendship and fighting for what’s right. And as much as he hated to admit it, he found all of those things in Los Angeles too.

Before throwing himself into battle with the Senior Partners’ demon army, Spike takes a quick glance at the “friends” he accumulated at Wolfram and Hart.

 **Charles Gunn**. Skilled fighter. Tortured soul. The only human left at “Angel Investigations”. Gunn has done a lot of unforgivable things in the past but like everyone here, he’s trying desperately hard to do the right thing _now_. Unfortunately, he only has about ten minutes left of doing the right thing. His abdominal wounds from earlier in the night are taking their toll and he’ll no doubt be a casualty in this war. Despite knowing this, the longing for a good fight is more alive than ever in Gunn’s dark-brown eyes. In a flash, he lets go of his injured stomach with difficulty and disappears into the chaos. Spike is suddenly filled with respect for the guy he barely knew before his eyes register on the newest and oddest addition to their team.

 **Illyria**. One of the legendary old ones. Definitely the most powerful, deadly and unintentionally funny god he’s ever come across. Aside from her blood-red armor, she wears the face of a girl who was adored by everyone she encountered - even Spike. Fred’s soul was lost when Illyria infected her body and claimed it as her own, resulting in a battle that would never end with Angel’s team on top. Her superhuman strength, mobility, endurance and, not to mention, her ability to manipulate time, was no match for anyone in L.A. - let alone the world. It isn’t likely that anyone will ever get used to having her around, but having her on “Team Angel,” at least for right now, is hardly a bad thing. Illyria’s tears for Wesley are masked by the heavy rainfall, but her grief is reflected in the way she fights. Her tangled hair flips into the faces of incomparable demons as she obliterates them with a certain rage there isn’t a word for. They are bugs to her, soon to be crushed by her fists, as the loss of her “teacher” weighs heavy on her mind. 

And finally, **Angel**. A guy whose self-loathing could easily be turned into a burning desire to destroy everything in his path if he experiences even _one_ moment of true happiness. Luckily, with Spike around, that isn’t likely to happen. The two vampires spent a century trying to prove who was more villainous and now (assuming they survive the night, an admittedly unlikely possibility) they’ll spend a century trying to prove who’s more worthy of redemption; they’ll continue to fight over women (mostly Buffy), the remote, who gets the pointy sword or the fancy car, etc. It’s an indisputable fact that they love to hate each other. But right now, as the odds are against them and it doesn’t seem likely that their rivalry will continue, Spike lets himself feel the tiniest bit of love for his long-time rival. 

“If only you could see me now, Slayer,” the recently ensouled vampire says under his breath.

He shakes his head and lets out a chuckle (that nobody hears) as his fist gets acquainted with a demon’s face. Spike pulls a dagger out of the inside of his coat - one that is already dried with Black Thorn blood - and plunges it into his enemy’s chest. 

“One down, 30,000 to go,” he mutters.

The relentless rain refuses to cease; it comes down as hard and fast as Angel’s broadsword. Spike finds himself in a tussle with a Hellhound, a vial canine-like creature that exists solely to kill.

“Don’t worry, Spike. Hellhounds feed exclusively on brains. You should be fine,” Angel sneers, caught in his own battle with a Mohra demon.

“Bloody hilarious.” 

Spike manages to capture the frenetic beast in a headlock and snaps its neck. A M'Fashnik quickly takes its place, baring his yellow fangs at William the Bloody. The competitive vampire is suddenly wearing his “game face,” baring his _own_ pearly-white fangs and arrogantly smirking. The M’Fashnik barrels toward Spike with complete self-assurance that he’s going to win the encounter. Side-stepping the move, Spike grabs hold of the demon’s broad shoulders and hurls him into the brick wall beside them. The demon growls and claws at Spike’s chest violently, breaking the skin until a spatter of blood soils his skintight, black shirt. 

“You’re a disgrace to your kind, vampire,” the demon growls. 

Spike groans and reveals his dagger to the M’Fashnik’s reptile eyes before slitting his throat. 

“Not anymore.” Spike charges off. 

More demons pour out of the darkness like the endless rainfall. Eventually, they all start to look the same. Spike’s mind wanders back to Gunn, who isn’t anywhere in sight. _Five minutes left. At most. Five minutes left, if he’s lucky._ The thought leaves him feeling morose. 

Illyria moves in a blur as she wipes out any and all beasties who are foolish enough to challenge her. For every ten foes that Spike and Angel take out, she takes out twenty. But they keep coming. 

The two vampires shoot each other a knowing look that says “we’re outnumbered.”

Meanwhile, a much bigger (and more female) assembly of fighters plunge themselves into the fight from the opposite side of the alley. They don’t appear to be members of the Senior Partners’ battalion, as they are attacking Angel’s enemies with full force. Illyria, with her hawk-like vision, spots the bombshell brigade immediately. She glides through the crowd, deflecting every demon’s attempt to fight her by pounding them into concrete. Illyria finds her way to one of the unknown females - the goddess notes that her strength, stamina and agility are impressive, for a human. As heavy rain pours down on them, Illyria observes the girl for a few small seconds before she begins her interrogation.

“Who are you?” 

The dough-eyed brunette doesn’t take her eyes off the Kailiff demon she’s battling.

“I’m Faith. Something I can help you with?”

“What is your purpose here?”

“Saving Angel’s ass, as usual,” she answers, ducking a swing from her opponent. Illyria studies her movements.

“You are not an average human. Sacred blood runs through your veins.”

Faith looks into the pastel blue eyes of her interrogator and scoffs. 

“And _you’re_ that goddess chick Angel told me about.”

“I am Illyria, God-King of the Primordium.”

“Sure, whatever,” she grunts after taking a blow to the stomach. “I’m kinda busy at the moment. Take it up with the blonde.” Faith gestures to a small, distant figure on the roof and Illyria’s eyes follow sharply.

“Is that your master?” 

“My _master_?” Faith angrily high-kicks at the Kaliff’s face. 

“Yes, your superior,” she explains.

Keeping her eyes on the silhouette of the girl above them, Illyria strikes down a demon who tries to challenge her with flawless technique; Faith watches the blue woman in awe.

“Uh, I like to think of Buffy and I as co-captains, like on a cheerleading squad. But instead of teaching cute cheers to girls, we teach them how to battle the forces of evil. Get it?” 

Faith swings her battle axe in the direction of the demon’s neck; he dodges. Her body fills with all things adrenaline and rage as she knee-kicks him in the gut and brings the axe down on his head in one final swing. 

“ _Co-captains_?”

It’s apparent that Illyria is not familiar with the word. 

“Whatever, fine, she’s the boss. Go bother _her_.”

Faith’s frustration suddenly disappears when she spots a tall, dark and handsome brood-machine in the horde.

“Yo, Angel!”

He shifts his head in the direction of Faith’s voice, eyes wide when he sees her ruby red lips smirking back at him. Angel makes his way through the crowd using the pointy end of his sword and the swift-moving slayer meets him halfway. Illyria continues fighting but keeps a watchful eye on the pair.

“Faith? What are you doing here?” 

“Do you seriously have to ask that?” Faith gestures to the chaos that surrounds them. 

“Buffy here?” 

Suddenly, they are back-to-back, fighting off snarling beasties.

“Yeah, loverboy, Buffy’s here. We brought the whole stinkin’ crew,” she says proudly, decorating her battle axe with demon guts. 

“That explains why I can smell Xander’s tacky cologne,” he jokes.

Faith is pleasantly surprised to hear Angel’s quip, which is as unusual as it is comforting during a stressful fight. His eyes scan the perimeter, catching dozens - maybe hundreds - of slayers mixed into the mass. 

“Slayers. How did you find so many so quickly?” 

“We work fast.”

Illyria appears next to Angel, casually holding a Vahrall demon’s severed head. 

“This female specimen claims to know you,” Illyria indicates Faith. “She dismisses my presence like the rest of you and speaks like the other half-breed. I don’t care for it.” 

Faith squints, clearly confused.

“ _Half-breed_?” 

“Vampire,” Illyria says dryly, using the bloody head in her hand as a weapon against her opponents.

Spike’s existence suddenly creeps into Angel’s mind like the plague. Nobody outside of L.A besides Andrew, of all people, knows he’s alive. 

“You got another vampire on Team Angel?”

All of a sudden, a Kleynach demon takes hold of Faith’s neck, lifting the slayer high off the ground. She loses her grip on the battle axe and its hard metal hits the concrete below her. The demon’s rough hands begin crushing Faith’s throat slowly with an unsettling satisfaction. Her mind is filled with one need: to _breathe_ . The Kleynach is interrupted by Illyria’s fist rupturing through its chest. Faith falls to her knees next to her assailant - now lifeless. Angel rushes over to Faith, tenderly examining her throat.  
  
“Are you okay?”

Faith retrieves her weapon and rises from the ground. She looks around for Illyria to thank her for the save, but she’s already gone. 

“Five-by-five. Go find Buffy, she’s got a plan. We got this handled down here.” 

“Where is she?” 

“Up there,” Faith signals to the roof with her eyes; the same roof that a folkloric creature is lurking around.

“Oh, no. The dragon’s mine.” Angel flashes his friend a boyish smile and departs like a true creature of the night.


	2. The Scooby Gang

On a rooftop that oversees the supernatural chaos beneath her, Buffy holds the mystical slayer scythe over one shoulder in a typical hero stance. Her chestnut eyes are locked on the dragon-sized problem _she’s_ probably going to have to deal with. The cold drops of rain begin to pick up ferociously as she stands at the roof's border, anticipating an epic showdown with the creature any minute now. Willow is on the streets below with Xander, awaiting instructions; she uses her telepathy to communicate with Buffy because, in the red-headed witch’s personal opinion, “cell phones are entirely overrated.”

“Buff, can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Will. Hey, can you do something about this rain?” 

“Sure.” Willow disconnects for a moment. “Quos serenitatem aeris,” she mutters quietly, prompting the storm to simmer down into a light drizzle. “Where’d you go by the way?”

“I’m on the roof. You can get a pretty good angle on the demons if you do the spell from up here.”

Willow quivers at the slayer’s suggestion. 

“Buffy, there is a _dragon_ up there.”

“Don’t wig out on me, I’ll take care of it. Just get up here,” Buffy replies, contemplating her next move. 

“What’s she saying?” Xander asks impatiently.

“Buffy, what if it breathes like, actual fire?” Willow frets while her male friend decides he officially hates being left out of the loop.

“Will, add me to this magic group call thing!” 

The obliging wiccan groans and, with a flick of her finger, Xander and Buffy can hear each other as well. 

“What’s going on, Buffy?” he questions.

“It’s simple. Will is gonna do the spell on the roof while I slay a fire-breathing dragon.”

“Wait, you _saw_ it breathe fire?” Willow panics. 

“No, no, no,” Xander’s shrill voice makes an unwelcome appearance. “I called dibs on the dragon in the car! You heard me call dibs, right?” he addresses Willow, lowering his voice in order to be taken seriously. “C’mon, let me have this,” Xander pleads, bouncing up and down like a kid. 

“Xander, you _can’t keep the dragon_! In fact, I would very much like the dragon to go ‘poof’,” Willow responds nervously, her eyes locked on the flying reptile swirling above their heads. 

“But-”

“Don’t make me regret making you fourth-in-command, Xand,” Buffy warns playfully.

“Yeah, yeah. Fourth-in-command, that’s me. Xander Harris, reporting for duty.” He ironically salutes to the sky. “We’ll be up soon.”

Xander slumps over into a slouch and mumbles to himself grumpily on his way over to the ladder. Willow follows behind.

“It is my _dream_ to have a pet dragon, I’ve told you guys this a hundred times. Willow got to keep Oz in high school and he was basically a dog. The least you could do is throw me a bone once in a wh-”

“Xander, we can still hear you.”

Back on the roof, Buffy studies the prehistoric, bat-winged lizard in the sky who has yet to establish itself in the fight that waits below. Of all the creatures she’s slain, the Chosen One has never encountered a real life dragon before. Its patterns and movements are not what she expected from such a ferocious-looking demon. For now, all it does is soar with a seeming desire to fly far away. Buffy finds herself feeling remorse for the animal that was so cruelly forced into battle. She thinks about naming the creature, but decides that doing so would make it much harder to slay. Her thoughts are abruptly interrupted by Angel’s unmistakable drawl.

“It is so like you to show up to an apocalypse I started and save the day.”

She whips around to find one of her vampire ex-lovers towering over her. Buffy throws her arms around him in a brief hug. 

“Well, you showed up to _my_ fight with the magic fix. The least I could do is return the favor.” Buffy gestures to her witchy best friend standing on the edge of the roof beside Xander. They both wave to Angel; Willow’s is classic and cutesy while Xander’s is a bit more disingenuous. 

“What’s she doing?”

“What she does best,” Buffy tells him. “A coven warned us about the Senior Partners’ plan to unleash an army on L.A. and offered a way to help. Willow’s gonna channel the other witches using the same spell that created the … amulet thing you gave me last year.” Buffy doesn’t let her mind dwell on Spike; instead she covers it with humor. “Demons burn to a crisp, we head to the mall.”

“Are you sure that’s gonna work?” he asks in a skeptical manner.

Angel received the amulet from Wolfram & Hart with zero explanation of its true origins. He assumed it was extra-dimensional based on the company’s access to all sorts of magical weaponry and artifacts. Whether it was Lindsey’s or the Senior Partners’ intention by giving it to him, the amulet was meant to incinerate the wearer and trap their incorporeal body at Wolfram & Hart - something they planned to do with Angel. Naturally, this information concerns him if Willow is touching that kind of magic. 

“I did my research on this one.”

And she did. After Spike burned up in the Hellmouth and the Scoobies left Sunnydale for good, Buffy became obsessed with learning more about the amulet. Not just for its magical significance but to see if there was even a _chance_ that Spike was alive. Unfortunately, all they were able to find was the spell that created it, which didn’t disclose anything about what comes after. But hopefully the power of thirteen witches can withstand what Spike’s vampire body could not. 

“Thank you for coming. Really.”

“Thank me after we win.” She cracks a thin smile and returns her attention to the dragon circling around the area like a buzzard. The Slayer sees its barbed tail as something she can grab onto and her body starts to behave like a cougar closing in on its prey.

“Buffy, there’s something you should know.” 

“Yeah? Whatsup?” 

Spike’s name is on the tip of Angel’s tongue when he decides telling her about his resurrection might not be worth it; he might be dead already. Again.

“... I called that dragon already,” he says.

“Yeah, join the clu-”

In one fell swoop, Illyria leaps onto the mythical beast from the roof parallel to them while Buffy and Angel watch in disbelief.

“Hey! I was gonna do that!” The slayer pouts.

The blue-haired she-demon clutches onto the large beast and positions herself on its back in a forward lean. The dragon lets out an ear-shattering screech in response. At first, the creature’s movements are manic and uncontrolled as a result of Illyria’s presence. In time, however, it seems to find an understanding with its passenger. That’s when Angel realizes that Illyria isn’t trying to slay the dragon; she’s trying to save it. She caresses its scaley side and they disappear into the clouds in the most mystical way possible, leaving Angel and Buffy feeling a bit useless.

“Well, since she’s _clearly_ got that handled … we better head down. Willow’s spell will take a second to set in,” Buffy explains. 

“Right behind ya.”

The two nod to one another and exit off the side of the building while Xander helps Willow prepare for one of the most complicated spells she’s ever done. 

“Thank you for being here with me. To keep me from going all evil and stuff.” She grins at her life-long friend.

“Where else would I be? I wasn’t much of a fighter _before_ I got this fun little eye-injury. Now I’m … banished to Willow duty indefinitely.” Xander nudges her rascally.

Willow tucks a red curl behind her ear and inhales the earthy post-rain aroma. Her eyes flutter shut as she reaches her hands over the demon army below, half-expecting this entire plan to fail horribly. Xander catches the doubt painted across her face.

“You can do this,” he insists.

“I sum ad eos. Detrahet me in lucem.” Willow keeps her eyes closed and swallows hard as a golden radiance ignites in her hands; its angelic glow slowly travels throughout her body, transforming her hair from burnt orange to intensely white.

“I can do this,” Willow whispers to herself. Xander places a hand on her back for support but her skin is hot to the touch. 

“Ow! Yeah, that was dumb,” he scolds himself while she gets lost in the spell. “Go on, do your thing.” 

The scorching light extends from her hands to their enemies, setting them ablaze. Supernatural lifeforms of all kinds - vampires, devils, demons, hellbeasts - every soldier the Senior Partners sent to defeat Angel and his crew is suddenly engulfed in flames. 

The Slayers down below halt their movements and withdraw from battle.

“Fall back! Get back!” Faith yells through the crowd, signalling the girls to get out of the way. It’s no longer their fight. It’s up to Willow now. 

Xander fiddles with his eyepatch anxiously, a nervous habit he hasn’t been able to break for months. Needless to say, the Scoobies’ lives have been chaotic and unpredictable since their departure from Sunnydale. In Xander’s words, “Cleveland’s Hellmouth is nice and all but … Sunnydale’s Hellmouth was _home_.” He watches Willow’s incredible power in action and remembers the days when all she could do was float pencils - and _badly_. He reminisces about the three of them - Buffy, Willow and himself - living it up in the high school library before any of this happened. Back then, their biggest worry was vampires and midterms. Today, it’s obliterating an entire demon army in a timely fashion so they can get back to recruiting slayers around the world. 

“It’s … it’s done,” Willow breathes, releasing herself from the magic’s thrall. She is filled with an overwhelming euphoria as she collapses into Xanders arms, the white gradually fading from her hair. “Let’s go find our friends.” 

Buffy runs through the mob rallying the troops, searching for wounded, for anyone left behind. Her eyes lock on a strangely familiar silhouette in the smog, prompting the slayer to stop dead in her tracks. The sound of demons choking on fire - a sound that Buffy has long been desensitized to - is drowned out by the roar of her own heavy heartbeat. She stumbles forward, mesmerized and utterly confused by the nostalgic way the figure moves and dances behind the flames.

“Who are you?” Buffy calls out. 

The shadow appears to go still in response to her voice, causing any ounce of patience Buffy has to leave her body in an instant. Flames flickering all around her, the Chosen One is suddenly moving with urgency across the alley into an answer she didn’t prepare for. Buffy finds herself at the edge of the thick smoke before the figure emerges from its depths and makes himself known. 

“... Spike?”

“Buffy,” he says in a deathly quiet voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will be posted tomorrow. :-)


	3. Second Chances

While moonlight beams down on unforgettable, Billy Idol hair, a bewildered Spike tries to make sense of standing across from a face he never thought he’d see again. The vampire’s strong brows lift gently in disbelief, his chest filling with an overwhelming warmth he had long forgotten. He reacquaints himself with the elegant features - _her_ elegant features - that he used to know by heart: the perfect, angular nose and thin, rosy lips; the golden locks of shiny hair that drape around the sharp corners of her oval face; her bewitching, hazel eyes that sometimes made it hard to form comebacks; it was all still there and he had missed it completely. He had missed _her_ completely.

“Are you real?” murmurs Buffy, seemingly to herself. 

She studies him vigorously. Her eyes drift across his face and body - searching for some clue or sign or explanation - while she shakes in remembrance of the man she left behind in the Hellmouth. He stands inches away in his leather trench coat, wearing a demon-clawed black shirt soaked in blood, and with the same soft gaze he had reserved only for her. His lips are slightly parted as if to say something sarcastic and irksome. He is exactly how Buffy remembered, right down to the left eyebrow scar and chiseled jaw. 

“I don’t understand. How are you here right now? I ...” A realization suddenly disrupts Buffy’s thought, causing her to erupt with rage. “You’re The First!”

In a swift motion, she instinctively throws a fist at Spike’s face, knocking him to the ground before he can react to her accusation. She plants herself on top of him, one hand gripping his collar in place and the other prepping to punch him again.

“Buffy! I’m not the-”

He catches her wrist softly in his grip, slowly lifting it away from his face and down to his chest. Buffy freezes and watches this happen, growing more confused by the second.

“You still got it, slayer. Think you might even leave a bruise,” Spike groans as he rubs his newly-punched face. “Also, if I was the bleeding First, what good is hitting me gonna do?”

The edges of Spike’s lip form into an annoying smirk, causing Buffy to suddenly be very aware that her legs are clasped around each side of his waist. She bolts up and staggers away into a pace.

“Wait, how is this possible? You’re back? You’re really back? But - how are you - did _Willow_ do this?” Buffy sits with that possibility for a moment while Spike silently watches her spiral from the ground, still mustering up the courage to tell her everything.

“No … no, she wouldn’t do that,” Buffy continues. “Does it … does it have _anything_ to do with The First?”

Spike rises from the rubble and dusts himself off. 

“I promise I will tell you everything - from the moment I came back to being trapped in this hellhole to working with Angel-”

“I’m sorry, what? You’ve been working with Angel? Here?” Buffy gestures to the city that is going down in flames around them. “I … why wouldn’t he call me?” she says to herself, triggering an eye-roll from Spike.

“I told your sweetie-bear to stay out of it. I wasn’t ready to face everyone after-” He interrupts himself, abstaining from meeting her intense glare. “Slayer, can we talk about this when we’re not surrounded by suffocating flames and a dying city? That’s only funny once.” 

Spike extends a hand to her half-way hesitantly and she slowly takes it; it’s real. It’s the same hand she held many months ago in the Hellmouth, submerged in flames. Buried memories of their last days together surface in Buffy’s mind: their last 3-hour conversation, their last night together, the last thing she said to him. _I love you_. And the last thing he said to her. _No, you don’t. But thanks for saying it. Now go._ It all comes back with one simple, electrifying touch. Back in Sunnydale, their moment of hand-holding passion was short-lived due to Spike forcing Buffy to leave him behind. But there was simply no way she would miss her chance of taking him with her this time. Buffy tightens her grip on Spike’s hand, her eyes burning into his. A look of disbelief creeps up on his face, like he was almost expecting her to reject his proposal. She interlocks their fingers as they run away from the carnage _together_.


	4. After the War

As the moon’s celestial glow illuminates the faces of wounded, grieving and exhausted slayers, Buffy flashes Faith a look.

_I hate this._

Faith looks back at her with troubled but strong eyes.

_Me too._

The two of them continue counting how many slayers remain alive post-apocalypse - a morbid process that never gets any easier. The group of courageous girls that stand before them (and the ones that don’t) knew what they signed up for when they took this gig. Even so, it doesn’t make the aftermath of war any easier on the Scoobies’ collective conscience.

Spike stands a couple yards away from the crowd of “good guys” in an attempt to avoid any unwanted reunions. However, his conspicuous hair and inability to be quiet for longer than five minutes is bound to betray him eventually.

“Alright, listen up,” Buffy announces. “Angel has graciously arranged for us to fly back to Cleveland on the private plane he stole from Wolfram and Hart-”

“I didn’t steal it. I just …” Angel lowers his voice. “... didn’t give it back.” Buffy shrugs in response.

“The plane is operated by magic so Willow will stay in the cockpit to make sure nothing goes wonky,” Buffy continues while Xander tries not to laugh at the word ‘cockpit’.

Illyria materializes next to Willow, who has a difficult time keeping her gaze anywhere else but the God’s form. She’s Fred … but she’s not. Her posture, her speech, her movements - are distractingly perfect. Inhuman. She no longer smells like lilies or some other floral scent that one couldn’t help but fall in love with - instead she smells like nothing. The otherworldly being beside her is still an exquisite and iridescent beauty - but _she’s not Fred._

“Your eyes linger. Why?”

“I, um. I’m sorry. You just … you look-” Willow is caught off guard by Illyria’s candidness.

“You knew this shell,” she interrupts, her voice devoid of emotion. “Fred.”

“I did. A little.” Willow doesn’t know what to say. _How do you mourn someone to the thing that killed her?_

Illyria has an almost non-existent capacity for grief and right now, it’s reserved for Wesley, and Wesley alone. She couldn’t care less about a stranger’s discomfort or sadness over her appearance. But _he_ would. Illyria thinks to herself for a moment. _What would Wesley say to this weakling?_

“I am sorry for your loss,” she responds, leaving the conversation before Willow can say anything else. The witch wrinkles her freckled face into a look of puzzlement, watching the magnetic woman leave her presence. It’s not often she encounters someone of her caliber. _Xander’s gonna get a kick out of her_ , she thinks to herself.

Meanwhile, Buffy is still in speech-mode.

“Angel and a few of his soldiers will be accompanying us on the trip home. We will provide them a safehouse until we can ensure that the fight is truly over.” Buffy flashes her soft green eyes at Angel and then Spike, who both note the twinge of doubt in her voice. It wouldn’t be the first time old enemies resurfaced.

Turning around, Xander’s eye follows Buffy’s gaze toward a bleach-blonde vampire hiding in the shadows. He flinches, clearly taken aback by his appearance.

“Holy crap,” Xander mumbles.

Knowing he’s been caught, Spike rolls his eyes into the next dimension and waits for Xander to blow his cover to everyone.

“Bloody hell.”

“Spike? _Is that Spike?_ ” Xander chokes, drawing attention to both of them.

“In the flesh.” He presses his lips together tensely and buries his hands into jacket pockets. A few familiar faces circle Spike, dazzled by his return to the land of the living.

“Guys, it’s The First!” Xander’s voice is shrill. He points an accusing finger at Spike, triggering the swarm of Slayers to tense into their fighting poses. Buffy suddenly feels inclined to get involved.

“Wait, guys. It’s okay. For those of you who don’t know ... this is Spike. He’s an ally.” Buffy feels strange simply calling him an “ally.” For her, he is much more complicated than that. “He was dead but now he’s not. He’ll be … coming back with us.”

The Slayers relax accordingly, causing Angel to look a little disappointed; he was kind of looking forward to seeing where that went.

Willow joins Faith and a few former Potentials who proceed to crowd around Spike. Some poke his face to make sure he’s corporeal while some wait for some kind of deeper explanation. Willow, however, stands beside him looking entirely unphased by his appearance. Spike notices her casual demeanor.

“You knew?” he questions.

“I could sense your essence while I was doing my spell up there. Figured Buffy might be upset if I set ya on fire,” Willow shrugs softly.

“You could sense me? That’s awfully creepy, Red.”

“Is it any less creepy that you can smell people from far away?” Willow counters with a raised brow.

“Touché.”

“Is it too early to make jokes at your expense?” Xander chimes in, grinning from ear-to-ear. “‘Cause I thought of a few good ones while you were dead.”

“Knock yourself out.” Spike pats him on the shoulder a few times and wriggles away from the horde of humans. Buffy refocuses on what she was saying.

“Uh, good work tonight, everyone. We’ll reconvene when we reach Cleveland.”

Buffy thinks that about wraps up her speech. It lacked the cinematic feel she hoped to achieve but right now, all she can think about is getting on that plane. Spike will be there - with _answers_. Faith senses that Buffy is finished talking and decides to take over.

“Alright. Let’s rock.” Faith nods to her formal rival, leading the group to Angel’s aircraft.

The lingering scent of petrichor and smoke fills the air and follows them to their destination. There’s an eerie quiet as the mass of remaining warriors trek through the streets, through the mud, through parking-lots and whatever else stands between them and the get-away plane. They’re exhausted, but determined. They’re ready to go home.

* * *

Angel’s aircraft is above-average as far as magic flying machines go. The windows are larger, the seats are cozier and the storage is fully-stocked with every snack and beverage known to man. As Buffy stuffs her face with cheese puffs, cheetos and brownies, she starts to understand why Angel trusted the corrupt company of Wolfram & Hart in the first place - _they make everything look so shiny_.

Buffy makes her way through the plane with her half-eaten snacks, eyeballing everyone and everything until she locks eyes with Spike who - of course - is sitting at the very back of the plane, away from all the chatty adolescents.

There’s a tense moment where Spike can’t tell if she’s going to sit with the fellow slayers or opt for the loner life and join him in the back. His crystal blue eyes wander down to his hands, which are fidgeting uncontrollably in anticipation. _Get it together, ya ninny. It’s just Buffy … oh, God. It’s Buffy._ He notes the patter of two ankle-boots that come to an abrupt stop when they reach his row. Spike lifts his head up to find the blonde hanging over him.

“Mind if I sit here?” Buffy asks.

“Sure,” he answers, trying not to sound too eager.

Xander squeezes through the aisle with a cart of beverages to distribute to thirsty slayers. He passes Angel sitting alone, also isolating himself from the rest of the group. Xander leans down and opens one of the drawers, revealing some blood bags.

“Buffy and I found these in the fridge. Take it before I vomit, please.” Xander gags (ostensibly for comedic effect) and holds out a blood bag for Angel to take.

Angel, who is faint from hunger, practically snatches it out of his hands and rips it open, before pouring it into a glass; Xander watches with a pure look of disgust on his face.

“Missed you, buddy,” he chokes out.

“No, you didn’t,” Angel retorts.

“No, I really didn’t.” Xander continues making his rounds, leaving behind the broody vampire. Angel swallows the cold blood, wincing a little as it travels down his throat. _You really couldn’t heat it up for me? Wow, I’ve become ridiculously high maintenance._

Faith pops a squat down next to Illyria, who looks outside of her element on this flying contraption. She seems deep in thought - as usual.

“First time flying, princess?” Faith interrupts the God’s contemplation, lifting one leg onto her seat and hugging it close. Illyria barely registers her presence.

“When I was young, we rode magnificent beasts. Flew through the air and demolished kingdoms as one. We had no use for such technology.”

“I’m guessing Angel didn’t advocate for you keeping the dragon.”

“He asked the Wiccan to send it back to its native dimension per my request. There it will thrive. Here it would … fester.” Illyria keeps a knife-like gaze on the window, eyeing the far away landscapes from above.

“Yeah, they’re not exactly low-pro,” Faith responds.

Illyria can’t help but equate herself to the dragon; she is very much an alien in this world, especially without Wesley to guide her. In a moment of weakness, Illyria wonders if this world will ever accept her; if she’ll ever make sense here.

Faith notes the flash of fragility on the God’s face and decides to show uncharacteristic concern for a stranger.

“I heard you were tight with Wes,” she begins, prompting Illyria to stare daggers into her. “I also heard you were kind of a student of his. I was once, too.” Faith glances around for prying eyes before pulling a flask out of her jean jacket and taking a swig of whiskey. As a leader, she tries to keep her alcoholic tendencies hush-hush. “He tried to help me. Be a mentor to me. But I didn’t let him. It’s nice that … he got the chance to be that for you.”

“In my time, your defiance would be punishable by death,” Illyria answers coldly.

Faith takes another gulp of her dry alcoholic beverage.

“Why do you think I did it?”

Faith slithers out of her seat and heads for the cockpit to check on Willow, to get away from people and conversations she regrets having. On her way down the middle aisle, she is taunted by the words that came out of her mouth. _Why do you think I did it?_ Faith had never admitted that outloud - that her impulsive actions in the past were not just a cry for attention, but a cry for death.

The brunette escapes her own thoughts by popping her head through the door to find Willow sitting in the pilot seat, drowsy and dangerously close to falling asleep.

“Hey. All good in here?” Faith queries.

“What?” Willow’s body jerks to the sound of Faith’s booming voice. “Oh. Yeah, totally. Everything is peachy!” She gives Faith a cheeky smile but the slayer can see the fatigue in her face.

“You’re exhausted. Go to sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“What, no. I can-”

“Don’t sweat it. If this thing decides to spiral into chaos, I’ll wake you up. But I’m sure we’ll be fine. Besides, we’re almost there.”

“But-”

“Willow, you kicked ass today. You deserve rest. ” Faith shuts the door behind her and hovers over Willow with a hand on her popped-out hip. She wears black, leather pants with a studded belt and a buttoned-up jean jacket over it. Her dark-brown mane is pulled back and around her shoulders, revealing her vehement stare. Faith’s ebony eyes are deepened by silver, smokey eyeshadow and heavy eyeliner - a classic look for her. Maybe it’s the way the interior lighting is hitting Faith just right or the fact that Willow is totally out of it but the red-head is definitely checking her out.

“Are you sure?” Willow questions, realizing her eyes have been wandering for too long.

“I’m sure.” Faith’s eyes wander down to Willow’s bare arms clasping onto each other for warmth. “Here.” She instinctively unbuttons and slides off her jacket, revealing a red tank that accentuates … everything. Faith wraps it around the witch’s shoulders like a cloak. Willow is too exhausted to analyze the girl’s weirdly nurturing gesture - as much as she’d like to.

“... thanks.” She contours the coat to her body. The last thing she sees before closing her eyes is Faith leaning back in the chair beside her with a leather-covered leg on the dash and a flask on her burgundy lips. Willow finds herself enjoying the view for a few seconds before getting pulled into slumber.

At the back of the plane sit Buffy and Spike - in silence. Buffy has a million questions for the man beside her: who brought him back to life? Why was he working with Angel? And the one that’s eating away at her - why didn’t he just tell her he was alive? She can tell Spike is flustered without even looking directly at him. His pale, veiny hand vibrates on his leg, anxiously awaiting a conversation he clearly isn’t ready to have. The slayer decides it’s been a long, _long_ night -and she’s having trouble even keeping her eyes open. Buffy makes the bold decision to nuzzle her face into his shoulder; it smells of pine and cigarettes and everything she’d forgotten in Sunnydale. Spike freezes as she does this, a warmth brewing in his chest. Buffy’s eyes flicker shut and she rubs her jaw into his side more, finding herself wanting to be as close to him as humanly possible. It’s safe; familiar. Spike had forgotten what it was like to feel so connected to someone - to _her_. After a few moments, he gently rests his cheek on the top of her head. The two don’t dare move a muscle or say a word for the rest of the night.


	5. Home Sweet Hellmouth

Buffy is curled up into a ball in her seat, lost in dreamland. Her face is hidden by wavy tresses of blonde hair, shielding her eyes from the morning sun. A brave hand nudges her shoulder softly, bringing her back to reality.

“Buffy? Hey, Buffy. We’re here,” the voice whispers. 

Her eyes blink open to Willow standing over her wearing a new set of clothes: a cream-colored tank with green, corduroy pants and … Faith’s jean jacket? _Interesting._ Buffy runs a hand over her groggy face, finding minimal drool. She notices the empty seat next to her. 

“Where’s Spike?” Buffy blurts out.

“I don’t know. He was one of the first ones off the plane, right before sunrise. I’m guessing Giles is showing him and the others around,” Willow replies. 

Buffy slowly lifts herself off the seat one vertebrae at a time. She stretches, she groans, she pulls the cover over the window to hide an annoying ray of sunlight. 

“Unlikely. Giles sounded less-than-happy about Spike on the phone,” Buffy finally says.

“Don’t worry, I gave him the ‘play nice’ conversation when we landed. I’m sure they’re cracking jokes and talkin’ sports as we speak.”

Willow unveils a thermos of Buffy’s favorite beverage - Columbian Roast coffee. She can practically see hearts form in the Slayer’s eyes as she places it in her hands.

“Have I mentioned how much I love you?” Buffy takes a long, savoring sip of caffeine as they begin making their way off of the plane.

“No, but why don’t you tell me _after_ you’ve showered. Demon blood doesn’t smell any better six hours later,” Willow teases, poking at Buffy’s stained shirt.

“You’re cheeky this morning.” Buffy narrows her eyebrows.

“What? I’m always like this.” Willow subconsciously hugs Faith's jacket to her body. Buffy follows her movement with suspicious eyes.

“Mhm. Sure,” she huffs. “Nice jacket. Where’d you get it?” 

“Oh, this? I’ve … always had it?” 

“Willow, there’s a Megadeath pin on it.” 

“Yeah, so? Their music is … soothing. Fine, Faith lent it to me last night.” 

There’s a thick silence as Buffy continues drinking her coffee and staring Willow down. _Since when are Faith and her “clothes-sharing” people?_ The two girls set foot onto the plane ramp and pick up their speed as they move downward.

“Why didn’t you just say that?” 

“I don’t know,” Willow shrugs. There’s a slight shift in her demeanor that Buffy, being her best friend, catches right away. The pace of her voice and walk accelerates due to an anxiety she didn’t have thirty seconds ago. _She’s being weird. Why is she being weird?_

“O-kay.” Buffy hides a wary look behind her thermos as they reach the entrance to their Cleveland Headquarters. Willow swings open the door and they walk into the lobby. Buffy opens her mouth to say something but Willow interjects before she can get a word out.

“I better get going. I’m teaching a seminar on The History of Witchcraft, which the girls kindly refer to as ‘nap time’,” Willow snorts. “I’ll see ya later.” She runs off.

Buffy takes a moment to assess Willow’s peculiar behavior. _Is Willow … ? No, there’s no way. I mean, she has been in rebound-mode after breaking it off with Kennedy. But Faith? That’s my crazy Buffy brain seeing things that are most definitely not there. Probably to avoid focusing on my real problems. Like Spike._

* * *

Buffy walks through the Slayer Organization with her much-needed cup of joe. She is greeted by smiling faces and a variety of “morning, Buffy”’s welcoming her back into the world. As she makes her way through the building, her wandering eyes search for the unlikely tour of their HQ that Willow insists is happening, but find no evidence of such an act. _It’s more likely that Angel stepped away to brood, Spike got bored and Xander is somewhere hitting on Illyria._ _Oh, god._ Buffy tries not to overthink the fact that two of her vampire ex-boyfriends and a God are lurking somewhere in her Headquarters.

The longer she parades around in grimy clothing, the more Willow’s suggestion of taking a shower sounds like a good idea. Buffy makes a left turn down the hallway to her room, opens the door and undresses immediately. She runs a hand through her hair to find what could only be a mixture of demon blood, dirt and ash. _Yuck. Good call, Will._ Buffy feels a pang of embarrassment thinking about last night when she nuzzled into Spike’s side with her grubby hair. _I’m sure he didn’t notice anything … with his enhanced sense of smell._

As Buffy cleans away any and all remnants of the battle, she can’t get Spike out of her head. They still have yet to engage in a real, adult conversation. She could tell he didn’t want to get into it last night and he disappeared this morning without a word. _Maybe he just ... didn’t want to wake me up. Plus, the sun’s not exactly a friend to vampires_. 

But Buffy is dangerously close to thinking things have changed - and that he might not want much to do with her anymore.

The slayer wraps a light pink towel around her petite body and shuffles through her suitcase for something to wear. _Should I go for a casual look today? Trendy? Chic? Preppy? Or a nice Girl-Next-Door look? Ugh. There’s no clear option on what to wear when your ex - who just came back from the dead - is avoiding you._

A thought rings through her mind like a bell. 

_Hm. Actually, yes, there is_.

Buffy rummages - or rather, _hunts_ \- for the perfect outfit in mind. She clips her fingers around a low-cut, skin-tight, black mesh top and a pink silk mini-skirt. 

_Wait, no. Dark colors. He likes dark colors_.

Buffy swaps out the pink for a midnight-blue skirt - this one with a skimpy slit on the side. 

_Bonus._

She tops the look off with knee-high boots and a suggestive chain around her neck, just in case she’s not drawing _enough_ attention to her cleavage. Buffy readies herself in the mirror and tilts her head to one side. 

_Maybe this is ... a little much._

There’s a knock at the door. Buffy quickly runs a brush through her long locks, slides a scrunchie around her wrist and twists the knob open to an unexpected face.

“Giles!”Buffy fights the urge to throw her arms over her revealing top. _No. I am a grown woman. I have every right to dress slutty,_ she reassures herself.

“Hello, Buffy. Can we speak privately for a moment?” She steps aside, allowing him room to enter her quarters.

“Am I in trouble?” 

“Of course not, no. I just wanted to congratulate you on a successful mission.” Giles’ voice is as gentle as ever. He pats the shoulder of his _kind-of_ daughter on his way inside. “I’m glad everything went smoothly.” 

Buffy shuts the door behind her. She can tell he has more to say.

“But?” 

“But I am …” Giles removes his glasses and rubs over the lenses. “... concerned about some of the ‘allies’ you’ve brought back with you.”

“You mean Spike?” Buffy’s voice is almost defensive.  
  
“No, not just Spike, although he is as _insolent_ as ever,” he grumbles, putting his glasses back on. “The woman. Illyria, also known as Illyria the Merciless. She’s an Old One; a God-”

“I know. And Angel assured me that we have nothing to worry about. I mean, I wouldn’t piss her off or anything, but-”

“What happens if we do? Anger her? Displease her? If she doesn’t like what we serve at dinner, will she retaliate in some way?” 

Buffy doesn’t have an answer - not one that will satisfy her watcher, anyway.

“We have to protect our own, Buffy. We are responsible for these girls. We can’t be adding any unnecessary threats to their lives,” Giles finishes sternly.  
  
“We don’t _know_ that she’s a threat. And if she is, wouldn’t you rather keep her close, where we can watch her?” Buffy lowers her voice in case heightened hearing is one of Illyria’s many abilities. “If she’s bad news, _I’m_ going to have to deal with her. No matter where she is.” 

In Giles’ silence is a sense of understanding; he knows just as well that, if she turned rogue, Illyria would become their problem, just as Angel’s battle with the Senior Partners did. 

“Besides. She could be a real asset to us,” Buffy adds.  
  
“Yes, it appears recruiting former serial killers is indeed a habit of ours,” Giles says snarkily. Buffy rolls her eyes. 

“Ha. Ha. Speaking of reformed killers …” Buffy starts, trying not to be completely obvious. “Have you seen-”

“I believe Spike is in the sparring room down the hall.” Giles looks almost pained delivering this information. It’s no secret that he disapproves of Spike and the connection he has to Buffy. However, those feelings drove him and his slayer apart once before; it’s possible Giles wants to repair the part of their relationship that was lost in Sunnydale. After all, Spike _did_ sacrifice himself and put an end to their war with The First. _That’s got to count for something. Even for Giles,_ Buffy hopes.

Giles musters a smile and says, “Be careful, Buffy. Don’t lose focus,” before exiting.

 _I won’t._  
  
The slayer waits a few moments after Giles leaves her chambers before leaving it herself. She walks down the grey-carpeted corridor to her favorite sparring room, takes a deep breath and pushes open the wooden door to find Spike wrestling a punching bag. He freezes at the sight of her. Buffy stops on the other side of the punching bag and ceases its movement with a firm grip. 

“You’re being avoidy,” she says.  
  
“I’m not being avoidy. I just … I got lost in this giant maze you call a Headquarters.” Spike’s eyes drift away from hers for a moment. Vexed by his lie, Buffy crosses her arms dauntingly.

“Okay, you caught me, Slayer. I’m being avoidy,” he admits to her icy stare. 

“Why?”

“It’s complicated.”

“What isn’t?” Buffy drops her arms to her sides in an attempt to loosen up before beginning her exhaustive interrogation. “How long have you been back?”

Spike racks his brain for the answer and when he finds it, he fears her reaction.

“ ... eight months.”

“Eight months,” Buffy repeats in a darker tone. “You’ve been back eight months.”

“Listen, Buffy-” 

“Spike, why didn’t you tell me? Like, right away,” she bursts out. Buffy’s not used to being the one trying to pry information out of him about their relationship - and _she doesn’t like it._ “Did you not want to see me or something?”

“Of course I wanted to see you!”

“ _Want-ed_ ? What, you don’t anymore?” Buffy can’t help her voice from sounding oversensitive as she latches onto unrealistic scenarios. “Is it because I put my gross, demon blood-soaked hair on you last night? Are you _disgusted_ by me now?"

“What? No!”

“Then _what is it_?” 

“ _I didn’t see you because I was afraid_ ,” he spits out. “I was afraid you didn’t need me. And they needed me _there_ \- in L.A. Fighting the good fight.”

Silence fills the distance between them. Buffy feels a sharp pain stab at her chest; it’s humiliation for making the situation about her and not his own path; it’s regret for ever causing him to think she didn’t need him; it’s fear - because what she feels is indeed the opposite. 

“Were you ... _ever_ going to tell me?” 

Spike sighs and shifts into story-mode.

“I was going to boat it to Europe and surprise you. But all I could think about on the way there was … how will I ever be able to top an exit like _that_ again? You, me, holding hands in the fiery depths of Hell. My good-looking face turning to ash in one mind-blowing sacrifice.” Buffy rolls her eyes at his oh-so-familiar ego. “I didn’t want to soil your memory of me. So I turned around and came back.” 

Although she’s not entirely satisfied with this explanation, she lets Spike continue.

“A few weeks after that, Captain Forehead got word that you were mixed up with that ponce, The Immortal, so we came to rescue you.” Spike’s feet shift on the hard-wood floors. “Turned out you didn’t need rescuing.” 

Buffy knows he’s hinting at the fact that The Immortal and her were an item - except they _weren’t_ . She was never actually in Rome; with Andrew’s help, the Scoobies placed a decoy of her there in order to fool their enemies and apparently it fooled Angel and Spike as well. _Not bad, Andrew_ , Buffy thinks. _I’ll have to give him a gold star or something._ She contemplates telling Spike the truth about the fake Buffy decoy but decides that’s a conversation for another time.

“Truth be told, I was kind of glad we never crossed paths,” Spike adds. “Seeing the life you built for yourself in Rome ... it didn’t feel right; me, showing up unannounced ... ” He distractedly traces his finger along the punching bag, wondering what Buffy’s expression looks like as she faces the floor. 

“But then ... yesterday,” Spike swallows the lump in his throat, his ocean-blue eyes fixed on her. “I thought I was a dead man. I figured the Senior Partners would do me in for good and I’d never get another chance to see you again. So I called. A few times. No answer. But your voicemail was a decent substitute for the real thing. You sound so ... happy.”

Buffy’s eyes are now locked on his. Her voicemail plays over in her head:

_Hey, it’s Buffy! Whatever unfortunate chain of events has led you to calling this number - leave a message and I’ll get back to you! But I strongly suggest sending a text because it’s 2004. BEEP._

“Since when do you have a cell phone?” she asks bewilderedly.  
  
“ _T_ _hat’s_ what you got from that whole thing?"

“Here’s what I got from that,” Buffy begins. Spike knows he’s in for it by her harsh tone. “You waited until you thought you were gonna die to tell me you were alive … so I could … what? Mourn you all over again?”

“Well, when you put it like tha-”

“What kind of twisted logic _is that_ ? When _I_ came back from the dead, you were like … the _fifth_ person I saw.”

“That’s hardly the same situat-”

“I literally dug my way out of the grave to say hi. And I couldn’t even get a text?” Buffy rages in a voice that can only be considered completely adorable to Spike, who tries to hide his smile best he can.

“You done?” he asks, knowing the answer. Buffy shakes her head and paces back and forth, glancing at Spike occasionally through her speech.

“No, I’m not _done_! Not only did you wait until the _last minute_ to call me but you guys never even _considered_ asking for help with the Senior Partners? You were just going to accept your fates? Boneheads! Thank god we found out about it when we did cause yeah, without my help, you’d be pretty dead right now. I swooped into that alley and saved both your asses. Well, Willow did most of the work … but still. I drove her there so I’m taking half the credit.” 

“ _Now_ are you done?” Spike’s devilish grin starts to have an effect on Buffy so she refrains from looking at it. 

“Probably.”

“I should’ve told you. I’m a coward. I’m a fool. I’m a bad, rude man. Is there any way you can forgive me?” 

“Hm, I don’t know,” Buffy retorts playfully. “Doesn’t _sound_ like something I’d do.”

Spike moves towards her; not too close, but close enough for them both to notice the energy between them shift a little. He exhales deeply.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you, pet.” 

Buffy’s deadly serious scowl transitions into a beam of contentment as she finally lets herself _really_ look at him. In her survey of his face, she remembers how the lines within Spike’s iris look like little bolts of white lightning surrounded by a deep blue. Her eyes travel down to his low, razor-sharp cheekbones and gradually move toward his undeniably sensual lips. Buffy realizes this is the first time she found herself focused on them since he got his soul. There’s a fine, elegant curve to them in the gentle smile he wears. 

Before staring at Spike’s lips for what could be considered too long without kissing them, Buffy breaks the tension. 

“I should probably check in with Faith. Make sure we have everything set for patrol tonight.”

“You guys don’t waste any time, huh, Slayer?” 

“They don’t pay me the big bucks to waste time. Actually, they don’t pay me anything,” Buffy scoffs, whips around and heads for the door. As a thought suddenly hits her brain, she halts her movement and turns her head half-way. Spike watches her intently.

“For the record ...” she starts, her voice low and sweet. “You’re wrong. I needed you.”

Spike doesn’t let himself believe the words, but they sound so good coming out of her mouth. _I needed you._ It plays over and over in his head. _What does she mean, “I needed you”? Like needed an extra fighter? Or did she mean ..._

He fantasizes about running over to Buffy and pulling her into a soft embrace, like they’re in some cheesy Rom Com - but he doesn’t. That was never their style. Instead, Spike stays where he is and asks something he doubts she’ll answer.

“What about now?” 

“What do you mean?” Buffy quavers and meets his earnest gaze.

“Do you need me … now?”

She mulls over the words for a while, turning away from him again at some point during her contemplation. She knows her heart; it’s messy, complicated and according to the First Slayer, “full of love.” However, Buffy decides it’s easier to push away any and all feelings (like usual) and save her verbal answer for another day. But her eyes tell Spike everything he needs to know. She smiles just barely and leaves the room, leaving the vampire alone with his new favorite punching bag and thoughts full of her. 


	6. Gods and Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter coming later today! Thanks for reading. :)

Angel sits in the corner of his dimly lit room with a copy of Bram Stoker’s _Dracula_ in his hands - a practical joke of Xander Harris’s doing; he left the book on Angel’s bedside table in an attempt to pull some laughter out of the brooding beast. He received blank stares and silence in return. 

Truth be told, Angel has read the esteemed novel dozens of times throughout his eternal existence. The book revolves around the battle of good versus evil - a concept he’s struggled with for centuries so naturally, he always compared himself to Dracula - the epitome of evil. But the last time Angel read it, he didn’t. Because he was surrounded by friends - people he loved. 

Fred was next to him in the Hyperion Hotel with her nose _also_ in a book. She fiddled with her braids while Wesley smiled at her from across the room, jotting something down in his notebook whenever a thought popped into his brain. Cordelia sat on the sofa and cradled Connor in her arms, Gunn behind her trying to get his attention with peek-a-boo. 

It was in that moment that Angel realized what truly separated him from being a monster - it was _them_. It was family.

Angel finds himself getting lost in the pages once again when Illyria walks in, unannounced, yet as gracefully as ever. She wears what she always wears: ancient, red armor that contours to her body like a second skin. Strands of blue and brown hair drape around the God’s oval face and bounce off the edges of her shoulders as she stops in the center of the room with piercing eyes. 

“Apparently Wesley didn’t get around to teaching you how to knock,” mutters Angel, who doesn’t look up from his book. 

“I grow tired of this place; its walls. They’re suffocating.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he responds dryly.

“I have lost my people. My world. And now ...“ Illyria’s lamenting comes to an abrupt stop before saying Wesley’s name. “I am without purpose.”

“Why don’t you … make a friend or something.” Angel flips the page, desperately trying to hold onto his last bit of sanity before Illyria rips it away. 

“A friend will not make this life easier to live. A friend will only remind me of how weak I’ve become.”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” he answers coldly, tightening his grip on the book. 

“How can you show such little regard for my presence?”  
  
“Listen, Illyria,” Angel’s voice is suddenly tense and full of hostility. “I am sorry you don’t love Cleveland, Ohio. _Truly_ . But I am out of a job, not to mention I have lost just about _everyone_ I care about in the last year; some in the last month. _Including_ Wesley _._ And I don’t feel like listening to you complain about the fact that you don’t know how to use a toaster!”

“You upset so easily. It’s shameful for a leader to be so emotional,” Illyria purrs. 

Accepting the fact that Illyria isn’t going to stop talking, Angel slams his book shut and sets it on the bedside table. He massages his temples as her words start to find their way into his thoughts. 

“I’m not a leader anymore,” Angel finally says.

Illyria tilts her head to one side and observes him carefully, as if she’s just discovered what stress looks like on a lesser being. 

“I see. So that is why you cling to anger.”

“ _’Im not angry!”_ Angel roars, triggering some slayers outside of the room to wince as they walk by. Embarrassed by his own outburst, he shuts the door with Illyria still inside.

“It is true. You are no longer a ruler of the people,” Illyria mutters while scanning his face. “But will you so easily let that define you?” 

“Are you _really_ one to talk? You’ve been wallowing in self-pity since you got here!” 

The word ‘self-pity’ ignites something in Illyria. She fumes and glides right into his face, her cold breath vibrating on his equally cold skin.

“How _dare_ you speak to me this way! I could liquify your entrails if I so wished, vermin.”

“And why don’t you? Wish it?” he growls. “Because you’re just as lonely as I am.” 

Illyria falls silent for a moment. 

“Lonely.” The word feels strange in her mouth. She relaxes back into her stationary stance. “Is that what this is?”

“Trust me. I know loneliness. I’ve got loneliness down to a T at this point. And if there’s any time I’ve ever understood you, it’s now.” 

“Do you grieve for your friends?” Illyria drawls.

“I do.” 

“Then let me grieve with you.” She slowly bends down and finds herself in a chair across from him. She lowers her gaze to the floor while Angel mirrors her movement, sitting back down in his armchair. Silence consumes the room.


	7. Bad Ideas

“Nice job, everyone. If you have any questions, feel free to see me after class or shoot me an email. Have a good day,” Willow announces to her class of Slayers, trying not to get offended by their vacant, yawning faces. She closes her Witchcraft history book, turns off the projector and packs up the rest of her things while the girls clear the room.

“Cool jacket, Ms. Rosenberg,” a student calls out while leaving the room. “You a Megadeth fan?” Willow looks down at Faith’s denim coat - the one she’s _still_ wearing. 

“Oh, yeah. The biggest,” she lies. As the room empties of human distractions, Willow is forced to confront her rapidly-moving, nagging thoughts.

_Okay, Willow. Intervention time. Why are you still wearing Faith’s jacket?_

_B-Because I feel like it._

_You aren’t even friends. You’re colleagues - maybe acquaintances. But that’s it._

_W-Well, why can’t I wear my colleague’s clothes to work? That’s … totally normal._

_Not when you’re attracted to them._

_I-I’m not. I don’t see Faith that way._

_You’re lying._

_Fine, she’s attractive!_

_She tried to kill you once._

_That was a long, long time ago. She’s not like that anymore._

_Faith is a dangerous woman. And you are wearing her jacket because … what? You’re lonely? She was nice to you for two seconds? You miss having a girlfriend?_

_Stop it._

_Admit it. You’re looking for something you know you’ll never find again. Not since -_

_Don’t say her-_

_Tara._

_That’s not true. I-I had something real. With Kennedy._

_Liar._

Willow’s bickering thoughts are interrupted by a bombshell brunette slithering into the room. 

“‘Sup, Willow. Do you have my-” Faith notices the object of her desire on Willow’s body. “ ... jacket?”

_Oh, god._

Willow's chest flares up at the sight of her. Faith stands across from the witch in the same shirt she was wearing last night - a red, form-fitting tank that reminds Willow how gay she is and a pair of sleek, leather pants. Before another second of blank, awkward staring passes, Willow rips the jacket off of her body and throws it over to Faith so she doesn’t have to come any closer. Faith catches it with one hand and raises an eyebrow at the red-head. 

“S-Sorry. I couldn’t find you this morning and I figured the best way not to lose it would be … to put it on my body. I’m always losing stuff,” Willow laughs nervously while Faith maintains her utter coolness. 

“Can’t really blame ya. It’s a killer jacket,” she flashes a dark, enchanting smile at Willow. 

_Phew. She doesn’t care. Neat. Neato. Wait, why doesn’t she care? Is she seriously not going to look into that at all?_

Faith looks as if she’s about to leave the room after collecting her jacket and something inside Willow doesn’t want that to happen. 

“How are you?” She blurts out in full voice, causing Faith to stop dead in her tracks. She turns around bemusedly and gives a subtle shrug. 

“Five by Five. And you?”

_I still don’t know what that means._

“I-I’m good. I found an unclaimed bag of skittles in the vending machine today so that was cool.” 

_Wow, Willow. You’re so cool and interesting. It’s no wonder you have a girlfriend … oh, wait._

“Sugar for breakfast. Score.” Faith swings her jacket over one shoulder and continues the conversation. “How were the girls today?” 

“Girls were good. They should be fully-rested for tonight’s patrol,” Willow blabs, rubbing the back of her neck.

_Why did I say that? Now she’s gonna think I’m boring! I mean, if she hasn’t figured that out already._

“They fell asleep? Oh, now I have to torture them.”

“ _Torture_?” she squeaks.

Images of the rogue Slayer during her darkest days suddenly flood Willow’s memory - like when the cold metal of Faith’s knife tickled her throat and threatened to break the skin. Or when Faith tried to choke Xander to death. Or the many, many times she hurt Buffy. 

_Faith is a dangerous woman._

_No … She isn’t like that anymore._

“I’m just gonna make them run laps and shit. Don’t get your panties in a twist, Red.”

“My panties in a twist?” Willow’s nervous laughter returns. “I would … never.” 

Faith keeps her eyes on the flustered witch but doesn’t say a word; she just watches with a wicked grin and vivacious, brown eyes. Uncomfortable by the silence, Willow feels compelled to fill it up with more pointless jibber-jabber. 

“I-I bet they don’t have that problem with you. Falling asleep, I mean. Like I’m sure you keep them entertained.”

“I do what I can. Hey, s’it cool if I smoke in here?” Faith slides onto the surface of Willow’s desk and crosses one leg over the other. She pulls out a cigarette, lights it and brings the tobacco to her red lips before Willow can get a syllable out.

“Those are … really bad for you,” she mumbles inaudibly, watching the hypnotic beauty destroy her lungs in the most elegant way possible.

_She exudes confidence, fearlessness and all things sensual. And she’s so … laid-back. How is she like that? In a place like this? In a place like … this. Oh, my god! Why am I letting her smoke in here? Drugs do not belong in the classroom!_

Faith studies Willow’s face, making her feel like a piece of art on the wall at a museum. Or more accurately - a caged animal at the zoo. There’s something in her gaze that causes Willow to shutter. _Why is she … looking at me like that?_ With a smirk hidden by a cloud of smoke, Faith readjusts herself on the teacher’s desk into a slouch. Her legs are now wide and hang off the sides in true delinquent decorum. Faith blows a puff cloud into Willow’s face playfully and lets out a charming giggle.

_I-Is she … flirting with me?_

“Did you know,” Willow coughs and splutters from the smoke, outing herself as totally uncool. “Cigarettes are responsible for more than four-hundred and eighty-thousand deaths per year? Yeah. And forty-one thousand of those deaths are just from,” she coughs again. “... secondhand smoke exposure.” Willow rubs her throat dramatically. 

“Hm. Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m only smoking around you,” Faith remarks. 

“You know, smokers die ten years earlier than non-smokers. And that’s a fact.” 

Faith puts out her cig in the cup she finds on the desk, triggering a muted gag from its owner. She then leaps off the wooden surface and plants her heavy combat boots in front of Willow’s mousy feet, causing her to stumble backwards. 

“You know what else is a fact? You were checking me out earlier.”

“ _W-What_ ? I’m - what - _no_ \- what are you - _that’s crazy_. You’re crazy!” Willow stammers.

“Well, yeah. But I’m kind of a pro when it comes to sniffing out attraction.”

_But … I was being so subtle._

Feeling backed into a corner, Willow decides being honest and open about her feelings is probably the way to go. Lying, making excuses and pretending are clearly not strengths of hers - not anymore, anyway.

”Listen, Faith, I’m really sorry. That was extremely unprofessional of me and I-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Chill,” Faith interrupts as if she doesn’t have time for apologies. “You didn’t commit a crime or anything. You just want to have sex with me, it’s not a big deal.”

“I - _what?_ I never said -”

“You didn’t have to. Like I said, I have a knack for this,” Faith laughs; Willow finds it surprisingly gleeful of a sound for someone with such a dark presence. “Besides, I had a feeling this was gonna happen eventually,” Faith adds in a cocky tone.

“Oh, what? You’re so attractive and charming that it was only a matter of time before I fell head-over-heels in love with you?”

“Who said anything about love?” Faith raises her eyebrows suggestively and Willow gets the message. “I think we both know that isn’t my style.” Faith inches closer, her hot, dulcet breath lofting against Willow’s cheek. 

_Sex. She means sex. Is she proposing what I think she’s proposing?_

The thought had never occurred to her. Every relationship Willow ever had - Oz, Tara and Kennedy - they were nothing if not attempts at big, wild and passionate love. But with Faith, that wasn’t an option - for either of them. 

“I can see you’re struggling with this, so let me clear things up. We’re both adults. We both have needs. Things have been really tense around here. I think we could both benefit from a night of fun,” she shrugs casually. “Would you be up for it?”

_Wow. She really just said all that. Like, outloud._

“I - uh - okay - um. C-Can I think about it?” 

“Sure thing,” Faith starts, slipping on her jacket. “You know where to find me.” The bewitching slayer curls her sensual lips into a smile before stepping backwards and taking off. Confused, flabbergasted and to be frank, a little turned on, Willow traipses forward and hunches over the desk with a full head of conflicting thoughts. Her eyes latch on to the half-used cancer stick at the bottom of her “World’s Best Teacher” mug. 

_I … um. What?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!
> 
> So, yeah. Faith/Willow are a thing in this fic. 
> 
> This ship is so interesting and bizarre to me because they have almost no interactions in the show but I think they would have been a really exciting pairing. For one, they're polar opposites and that always makes for a tumultuous relationship. Two, I thought Willow's energy with Kennedy was wack. And three, Faith was never given a fully-fleshed out romantic relationship and I like the idea of giving her one with someone like Willow. I hope you guys are into it and stick around for the ride. :-) 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	8. Old Habits

Spike’s room at the Cleveland Headquarters is definitely an upgrade from the last time he stayed with the Scoobies. No longer condemned to the Summers’ dingy basement, his assigned bed-chambers remind him of a hotel suite that hasn’t been touched in years, with dust gathering in various places and bedsheets that have seen better days - but Spike couldn’t be happier to be in the vicinity of Buffy. 

The vampire tosses and turns on his junky mattress, periodically checking the time. It’s almost midnight, which means he should probably get up like a normal creature of the night any minute now. However, he can’t shake the feeling that when Buffy returns from patrol, she might come to see him like she used to. For that reason and that reason alone, Spike stays put instead of booking it to any room with fresh blood-bags and a television.

He’s entirely unsure of what the future holds for him and the Slayer. Their relationship has been nothing if not extremely complicated from the very beginning. The pair went from enemies to kind-of allies to enemies again to actual allies to lovers to “it’s complicated” and then finally to friends - _well, a little more than friends._ Now he’s back in the land of the living and the current status of their relationship couldn’t be more of a mystery. 

Spike reaches for a carton of cigarettes on the table beside him and freezes when he hears a knock at the door. More alive than ever, he rolls out of bed wearing nothing but a pair of black jeans with an unfastened belt. “Coming,” Spike calls from across the room, snatching a crumpled-up black t-shirt from the floor and struggling to put it on fast enough. Buffy cracks open the door and peeks inside before he can get it on. 

“Oh. Sorry. I thought you said ‘come in’.” Buffy shields her eyes as if she’s seeing something she hasn’t seen before. During their time together, Buffy has walked in on him shirtless a million times (without fail) but being apart for almost a year has clearly changed their dynamic. 

“No worries, love.” Spike rolls his shirt down over his stomach, buckles his belt and places both hands at his hips. “Sorry the place is a mess.” He gestures to cigarette butts on the table and empty alcoholic beverages scattered on the floor.

“Well, you’ve been here nearly a day so I expected as much,” Buffy retorts perkily, picking up a crumpled-up beer can and tossing it in the garbage. “Hope you’re open to visitors because Dawn just got here and promptly took over my room.” Realizing she might be overstepping, Buffy backtracks. “But I mean, I-I can hang somewhere else for a while if you-”

“No!” Spike clears his throat and tries to adopt a less-obnoxious tone. “I mean, no. You can stay.” He leans his back against the brick wall behind him and fiddles with the lighter in his pocket. “So, the Little Bit is back. Should I start locking my door?”

“Dawn just spent the last six months rooming with Andrew. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see anyone who doesn’t speak fluent nerd,” Buffy answers, taking a seat on the edge of Spike’s springy bed.

“Can’t really blame her. I look back on my days of being chained to a sodding recliner in Xander’s basement and wonder why I didn’t off myself right then and there. Well, I mean, I tried. Didn’t quite work out.” Spike huffs, pulls a cig out of his carton and wedges it between his lips while Buffy watches. 

“You’ve truly lived in the wackiest of places,” she chuckles, fiddling with the pile of blankets on his bed absentmindedly. 

“What, you didn’t like the crypt?” Spike lights the end of his cigarette and pulls the smoke into his mouth before releasing it into the dark room.

“It wasn’t … awful. You know, as far as creepy burial places go,” Buffy admits. “It had its moments.”

Spike shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, Buffy’s words reminding him of a world he left behind. She notices a change in his face, somehow picturing the exact images flickering through his mind.

“But yeah. That was a long time ago.” Buffy tucks a strand of golden hair behind her ear, her eyes focused on the wooden floorboards. “I’m sure your place in L.A. was pretty luxurious. Especially if you were mooching off of Angel and his CEO money.” 

“Wasn’t too bad,” Spike releases the cig from his mouth and inhales. “Never felt like home.” He avoids looking at her directly by tapping the ashes of tobacco against the lip of his ashtray. “Not like good ol’ Sunny D.” 

“Which is now a giant hole thanks to you,” Buffy says through a smirk. 

“That’s my legacy, pet,” he retorts, pointing the tip of his cig at her. Buffy snickers in response.

“I’m honestly surprised this place is still intact since you arrived. You have a tendency to destroy property.”

“As long as we’re on the subject of your nifty Headquarters, _how the hell_ did you lot get the funding for this place?” Spike inquires before taking another puff of his cigarette.

“Would you believe me if I told you I robbed a bank?” 

“Doubtful.”

“You know, this isn’t even our only location,” Buffy brags. “We have squads in Italy, Scotland, New York, Chicago -” Spike’s eyes widen at her list of much more appealing locations than Ohio.

“And the Scoobies decided to settle down in Cleveland for _what_? The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?” he quips charmingly. Buffy’s voice suddenly takes on a serious tone.

“I’m usually in Scotland, actually. Command Central.” 

“Is that right?”

“And as much as I love the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, we’re in Cleveland just in case the forces of evil decide to make another unwelcome appearance in L.A.” Buffy explains, leaning forward and resting her forearms on her knees. “But - assuming Wolfram & Hart is officially closed for business, I’ll be heading back to Scotland.”

“Oh,” is all Spike says in return. He brings his cig to the ashtray and stubs it out. 

In that moment, Buffy realizes she hates the idea of leaving Spike behind a second time. _He can’t possibly want to go back to L.A. with Angel. I mean … does he? No, that’s ridiculous. This is Spike. He wants to be where I am .... right?_

She decides to test the waters. “Speaking of, our Scotland Headquarters is the crème de la crème of top-secret organizations. Super well-attended. You’d hardly ever notice that we get attacked all the time,” Buffy pauses, thinking up more ideas. “And sunlight? Basically nonexistent there.” She stares him down, noticing every minuscule facial reaction to her words. “Cigarettes are also _much_ cheaper in Scotland. N-Not that I smoke or anything. I-I just know some people do,” Buffy’s voice trails off. _Well, that was tragic._

There’s an uncomfortable silence while the question of Buffy and Spike’s future hangs over their heads. The bleach-blonde vampire abandons his corner of the room and steps closer to Buffy, who is all out of compelling reasons to come to Scotland with her. All but one - the only one Spike cares about. 

“And you’ll be there,” he says pensively.

“Well, yeah. Duh. Who do you think runs the place? Andrew?” 

“Listen, pet. Let’s just see what happens with the Senior Partners and then we’ll talk.”

A rage the size of Illyria’s almost-pet dragon consumes Buffy completely. _We’ll … talk?_

“God, what is your _deal_ , Spike?!” Buffy explodes, leaping off the bed. “I get that mixed signals are our thing but can we just press pause on them for a sec? After everything we went through together, everything we …” A coat of glossiness materializes in Buffy’s hazel eyes. “You’re really just going to treat me like a stranger?”

“Buffy, I-”

“You don’t want to come back with us? _Fine._ I get it. I’m hold-on-to-the-past-girl and you’ve clearly moved on, but-”

Spike halts her words with a sudden grip of her hands; it's intimate. She looks down at the chipped, black nail polish on his fingers as they curl around her tiny palms. 

“None of this is about what I _want_. It hasn’t been for a long time. No matter what I feel for you … how much I love you … I can’t think about it.”

“Well, right now I’m asking you to. I’m asking you to think about it.” Buffy glares at him. “What do you want?”

Spike tightens his grip on Buffy’s hands and brings them to his chest slowly; the spot where his soul burns the strongest. His pale blue eyes sharpen, digging their way into her heart as she looks up at them. 

“I want to be wherever you are,” he professes.

“Well, now you’re just saying whatever you think I want to hear,” she remarks, loosening her hands from his until they fall to her sides. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you are a _deeply_ stubborn woman?” 

“Not today.” 

The tension in the room suddenly disappears as Buffy cracks the smallest smile that Spike then mirrors. She gives him a look - one he knows all too well: _can we just hold each other for a while?_ His body warms to her silent request which he accepts with a grateful nod. With gentle hesitation, they walk around to opposite sides of the bed and slowly come together in the center of the mattress. Spike scooches in and slides an arm around Buffy’s upper back, allowing her to curl into him. Buffy nestles her face into his chest, her long, blonde mane unleashed on his shoulder. Spike’s chin rests over her head; he plants one soft, bold kiss on the top of it and waits to see how she reacts. After a moment of reflection, Buffy squeezes onto his black t-shirt with her fingers and molds her body to his, deepening their embrace. For a split second in time, Buffy and Spike are one mind, one heart and one being - as they were months before.

“Buffy?” 

The silence in response causes Spike to adjust his face so he can see hers. The Slayer is already fast asleep, her nose making a small whistling sound that breaks Spike’s heart into a million pieces. He nuzzles his nose against the crown of Buffy’s head and inhales the sweet scent of citrus and slayage before nodding off himself.


	9. Have a Little Faith

In a bedroom that’s dangerously close to looking like Xander’s old basement, Willow lays on her lifelong friend’s futon with an almost empty bag of Doritos and a deeply troubled look on her face. Xander sits with his legs crossed in a chair across from her, tapping his chin and humoring the idea that they’re in a therapy session.

“What brings you in today?” he asks.

“So I have this friend …” Willow begins. “A-And this friend is starting to look at this one girl - a co-worker - differently. Like, in a way that might be a _teensy weensy_ inappropriate.” 

“... Are you the friend, Will?” Xander questions with a furrowed brow, though he already knows the answer. 

“No ...” She looks at her friend, who gives her an ‘are you sure about that?” face. “Fine, yes. It’s me. So I’m looking at this girl differently, like romantically or sexually or whatever … and she noticed I felt this way and said we should … you know … do _it_.”

Trying to hold his composure, Xander nods slowly and keeps his eyes on her. “Go on.”

“I mean, I always thought this girl was attractive in a ‘I have eyes’ kind of way. But now things are suddenly different between us,” Willow whines while looking up at the ceiling. 

“Mhm. And how does that make you feel?”

“Well, _lately_ I just feel like ... like I want to _ravage_ her,” Willow confesses, covering her face sheepishly with Dorito-dusted hands. 

“Wow, that’s straight up locker-room talk, Will,” Xander says with animated eyes as he abandons his role as a therapist and reverts back to his old self. “Who’s the girl?” He asks, hungry for the answer.

“I’m not saying,” Willow says sternly.

“Is it the Slayer with the double-braids and the septum piercing? What’s her name … Tasha?” 

“No.” 

“So, she’s still available then?”

“Yes, Xander,” Willow replies with squinted eyes.

“Noted. Oh, oh! Is it the girl who complimented your earlobe that one time?”

Willow relives the strange interaction in her head as she digs through the bag for another handful of chips.

“No, she transferred to the Chicago Headquarters.” 

“Dodged a bullet there,” Xander grins and racks his brain for more bachelorettes. Willow bites down on the inside of her lip when it looks like he has another girl in mind. “Yikes, is it the Slayer who eats crayons?” 

“No! What do you think my type is?”

“Quiet beauties and hot-headed brunettes,” Xander replies instantly. 

“Well … yeah. But you’re never gonna guess, Xand, so just -"

“Then just tell me,” he pleads. “C’mon, Will. We tell each other everything. The other day, you thought some guy looked at you weird at the supermarket but it turned out he just had a lazy eye. You told me _that_. But now, when there’s something that’s seriously bugging you, you can’t tell me who it’s about?”

“The lazy eye guy _was_ bothering me!” 

“Please, just … give me a name?”

“Fine. It’s … it’s Faith.” 

The room goes still for a few small, torturous seconds. Willow avoids any and all eye contact as she looks down at her orange, dorito-y fingers.

“... Faith Hill?” Xander questions with complete and utter shock on his face.

“No. _Faith._ Rogue Slayer Faith. Five-By-Five Faith,” Willow lets out a soft, reminiscent sigh. “Faith.” The name feels warm in her mouth.

“I’m not judging. I’m _not_ judging,” he says to himself before turning to face Willow. “Okay, I’m judging. How?! When?! How?!

“I don’t know! I think I’m just feeling lonely and a little impulsive.” Distressed, Willow rubs over her face and mentually prepares to tell Xander the things she hasn’t yet said out loud. “And I … I don’t have to carry my guilt around with me whenever we’re together. When Faith looks at me, she doesn’t see all the horrible things I’ve done. I just … never have to worry about it with her.”

“Do we … make you feel that way?” Xander asks in a crestfallen voice. “Like you should be guilty?”

“It’s not your fault. _It’s mine_ . After what I did …” Willow takes a deep breath and starts a new thought. “As much as you guys act like everything’s okay and it doesn’t bother you, the fact that I killed someone ... the things I’m capable of … will _always_ be in the back of your mind, Xander.”

“Hey. I’m sorry. Look, Will, we’ve all done bad things. Now, it’s true, I’ve never flayed someone alive.” Willow picks at her fingers habitually out of anxiety as Xander monologues about her past. “But I’ve also never given over a thousand girls around the world purpose. In fact, I’ve probably done the opposite, somehow,” Xander jokes, resulting in a small chuckle from Willow. “I’ve never obliterated a demon army with my magic and saved an entire city. You’ve made mistakes, sure. But there’s literally _nothing_ you could ever do to make us love you any less. It’s scary how much that’s true.”

Although they both know that his sentiment can’t totally fix the problem, Willow beams at Xander and puts a hand on his as a ‘thank you’. 

“So, back to the Faith dilemma. Is she the one?” 

“No,” Willow says almost too fast. “I’m sorry, is this weird? I mean, she did take your virginity and all.”

“In my head, Drew Barrymore took my virginity, not Faith,” Xander answers plainly.

“Was it that bad?”

“The sex?” He thinks for a moment. “Nah. ‘Bad’ is what came afterwards when she kicked me out in my underwear, tried to kill me a couple times and then proceeded to never talk to me again.”

Willow groans and dumps what’s left in the bag of chips directly into her mouth. 

“She’s non-committal, Will,” Xander goes on, prompting his “patient” to bury her face into the couch pillow. “And you’re the opposite. I know you. You’re gonna end up wanting more and she’s just not that kind of person.”

“Hey! You don’t know _what_ I’m capable of. I can totally have a casual thing!” Willow asserts with food in her mouth.

“Okay, Will. I just don’t want to see you get hurt. And I’m sure Buffy would say the same.”

“Well, I’m not gonna tell her.”

“What? No, no, no. You have to tell Buffy,” Xander implores her with praying hands.

“I just … I can’t deal with that _look_ of hers. You know the look! She would stare into my soul with those big Buffy eyes and everything would be bad.” 

“So, you’re really gonna do this? You’re gonna … do the ‘deed’ with Faith?” 

“Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know.” 

“Faith? The girl who tried to hibachi us with her knife in high school?” he brings up in an attempt to talk her out of it.

“She’s not like that anymore!” Willow bellows, sitting up. “Why is it that you and Buffy are the only ones allowed to date reformed serial killers, huh?”

“Hey, at least Cordelia wasn’t evil.”

“Unless you count grades one through twelve.” Willow smiles gleefully but it slowly devolves into a frown when she remembers that Cordelia is yet another dead friend. “I honestly can’t believe she’s gone. When Angel told me what happened to her … I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something we could’ve done.”

“I know,” Xander sighs woefully. “But there wasn’t. She chose this life just like we did.” 

“Do you ever wonder what our lives would’ve been like i-if we never met Buffy? If we never learned about Slayers and vampires and Hellmouths? Do you ever think about that?”  
  
“I mean … yeah. But I’m pretty sure we’d be dead.” Xander chuckles and brings a can of Mountain Dew to his lips, taking a sip. “Allow me to remind you of Graduation Day, a.k.a the famous Sunnydale massacre of 1999.” 

“Say we weren’t dead. Say ... we were just regular high school kids who went to a school where really weird stuff happened.” Willow enjoys playing pretend for a moment. “I went to Harvard, you followed your dream of becoming a World-famous wrestler, failed epically but I let you stay in my basement,” she sniggers and watches Xander take another sip of his pop.

“Do I pay rent in this scenario?” he questions.

“Hm … no. I let you stay there for free because I feel bad for you.”

“Sounds about right.”

“So yeah. We live the rest of our lives as normal humans who don’t know a thing about the demon underground. Would you go back if you could?”

Aside from the faint television static in front of them, it’s quiet. Xander taps his finger on the metal can, thinking over her fantasy. 

“No,” he says, breaking the silence. “Never.” 

Willow’s thin lips grow into a soft smile as she pops open a can of fizzy Coca-cola.

“Yeah. Me neither.” 

The two clink their sodas and take a long, hard sip of carbonated goodness.


	10. The Mission is What Matters

Squalls of light rain rattle against Spike’s window while Buffy sleeps in his protective embrace. Blonde wisps of hair drape around the sharp corners of her convex face, giving Spike full view of all her exquisite features. He wonders what will be responsible for waking up the beauty in his arms - the storm outside his window or the rumble of his belly from lack of sustenance. Before he can place a bet, Spike feels a powerful vibration against his lower body and cocks an eyebrow. _What the bloody hell?_ Buffy groans and scrunches up her face, digging into her pocket for her ringing cell phone. _Oh._

“Hello?” she says drowsily. “Uh, hi Giles. Yeah. Oh, you came by my room?” With bags under her eyes, Buffy looks up at Spike. “No, I stepped out early this morning. I was … craving a scone,” she lies. “Okay, I’ll be there in a few. Bye.”

“Morning, Sunshine. Duty calls?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Buffy responds distractedly as she springs off the mattress. “We have a Scooby meeting. I totally spaced.” She looks down at her feet as they reach the floor, realizing she must’ve kicked her shoes off at some point in the night, along with one of her socks. 

“Sounds riveting,” he grumbles in a sleepy voice.

“You can come if you want. I think Angel will be there too.” 

Spike rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his bristly, blonde hair as he pushes himself off the bed.

“I wouldn’t want to steal Tall, Dark and Dreary’s thunder. Think I’ll opt for warm blood and telly-time instead,” he says while sliding on his combat boots. Meanwhile, Buffy struggles to find her chunky, black pumps. 

“Have you seen my-”

Spike appears in front of Buffy with her missing shoes and one frilly, pink sock. 

“Nope, haven’t seen ‘em,” he says with a wicked grin. She scowls at Spike and snatches them out of his hands playfully. 

“Look, about last night,” begins Buffy as she slides on her heels. “I’m not trying to pressure you into coming with us. You’re your own vampire-person and you can make decisions for yourself.” Buffy pets down her powder-blue tank in an attempt to smooth some of its wrinkles. She knows she doesn’t have time to stop by her room to change before the meeting. _Hope nobody notices I’m Outfit-Repeater-Gal today._ She pouts and makes her way over to the door. “But if you do decide to come with, I wouldn’t … hate that.” Buffy glances at him one more time before exiting the room.

“Quite the romantic, she is.”

* * *

The Scoobies, along with a few allies, gather around a conference table in the Cleveland Headquarters' boardroom. Buffy hides a yawn and takes a quick survey of the space: it’s a fairly plain room, filled with an incredibly strange group of people. Andrew stands next to Giles eyeing the She-Demon, Illyria, whose feet are firmly planted in darkness beside Angel, who couldn’t look more displeased to be here. Robin Wood - Head Watcher of this HQ and Faith’s ex-whatever - stands as far away from the feisty, brunette Slayer as possible, resulting in some uncomfortable tension. Her heavy Doc Martens drumming against the floor, Faith walks over to Willow and whispers something into her ear. _Okay, weird_ , Buffy thinks. _Did anyone else see that?_ Her eyes search for Xander, who she finds doodling on the white board waiting for the meeting to start. Meanwhile, the storm rages against the double hung windows, reminding Buffy to close the blinds - a safety measure for Angel in case the sun comes out during their meeting. People who are seeing each other for the first time share a few awkward glances before sitting down at the long, distant table. 

“Alright, what’s the first order of business?” Buffy starts off.

Andrew’s hand shoots up immediately and everyone suppresses a long, exasperated groan.

_Here we go._

“Yes, Andrew?” she regrets asking.

“I just wanted to say I think it’s hogwash that I didn’t get an invite to this meeting. You guys are lucky I overheard Xander talking about it in the hallway,” Andrew whines with crossed arms. In no mood to humor him, Buffy moves past it.

“Great, anyone else?” 

“I got something, B,” Faith answers. Willow’s face shoots in the direction of the dark-haired Slayer as she speaks, consumed by her gravelly voice. “I know some of you already know this -” _Meaning everyone but Robin,_ Buffy thinks. “... but a few of us got ambushed last night during patrol and some Slayers got hurt. They’ll probably need to sit out of tonight’s outing.”

Unable to keep himself from speaking up, Robin shifts toward her angrily.

“You’ve been here one night and I already have injured Slayers? You have to pay better attention to your squad,” Robin orders. “We’re low on fighters here as it is.” He is clearly hinting at the fact that Faith decided to join the rest of the Scoobies in Scotland a few months ago, leaving Robin to lead the Cleveland HQ alone. Since both of them refuse to talk about their problems, the reason for their breakup remains a mystery to the gang. But the animosity between Faith and Robin suggests one of them - _probably Faith_ \- messed up big time. Xander looks at Willow and sends her a message with one pointed eye: _She’s not-committal, Will._

“Excuse me? I was doing _my job_ ,” Faith barks back at him.

“When you’re here, your job is to protect these girls.”

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” 

“ _I_ _think_ you need to be more focused during patrol,” Robin dictates in a tone that makes Faith lose her cool. 

“Wow, look at the Principal trying to school me. You’ve really let leadership go to your head, haven’t you? Well, news flash: I don’t answer to you.”

“This is the job _you_ instructed me to do, so why don’t you- ” 

Buffy is about to step in before things get too hasty and possibly violent when someone else takes it upon themselves to interject.

“Why don’t _you_ just lay off?” Willow blurts out at Robin, causing everyone at the table to look at her in confusion. “It wasn’t her fault.” Faith’s doe eyes fill with surprise and appreciation for Willow, whose random outburst was a strange comfort. She’s not used to people - especially a member of the OG Scooby Gang - standing up for her. 

Giles, ever the voice of reason, addresses the three of them.

“Why don’t we get back on track?” He readjusts his glasses and refers to his notes. “I think, perhaps, we should do introductions. We have some new faces here today.” 

Angel turns into the shy, new kid on his first day of school while Illyria remains stationary in her seat.

“Illyria, uh … would you care to go first?” Giles asks the blue woman. She glances at Angel, who is sinking into his office chair.

“I am Illyria, God-King of the Primordium, Shaper of Things. I came to this world to unleash my Army of Doom on humanity.”

Buffy and Giles flash each other worrisome looks, which Angel then clocks. Before Illyria says anything too alarming, the gloomy vampire interrupts. 

“But then she decided _against_ that and joined forces with us instead.”

“Only because my demon army perished,” Illyria says in her plain, logical voice, staring straight ahead. The group exchange a second round of disturbed glances. Again, Angel tries to fix things.

“She’s kidding.” He looks at her directly and speaks in a firm, reprimanding voice. “ _T_ _ell them you’re kidding_.”

“Kidding? I do not engage in humor,” Illyria answers, triggering Angel to clench his fists in frustration.

“She’s good now, really. I’m working with her,” he reassures the unsettled humans that surround them.

Illyria takes in his words. If the God was ever capable of surprise, it was now. She studies Angel’s face and wonders: _is this my new teacher?_

The Scoobies can’t really argue with Angel’s efforts to redeem Illyria when three of them are technically murderers. In addition to that, she hasn’t done anything to give them reason to distrust her. _Besides the fact that she tried to enslave the world a few months ago,_ Buffy thinks. _Just that little detail._

“Also, I’m Angel,” he notifies Robin - the only person in the room he hasn’t got acquainted with yet. “I, uh. I led Angel Investigations over in L.A. We … helped the helpless. “He wrestles with the idea of announcing he’s a vampire but decides against it. “I’m a Cancer.”

“Lovely,” Giles responds in a monotone voice, realizing that putting the two most awkward people in the room on the spot probably wasn’t the best idea. “Moving on - Willow?”

Willow, who has been trying to avoid Faith’s eye-flirting for the past three minutes, is brought back to reality. “Yes! That’s me. Um. I’ve been in contact with the coven and we haven’t sensed any bad juju from the Senior Partners. Pretty dead energy, actually. I-I don’t want to say we’re done with them for good, cause y’know, we’ve been wrong before. But I think the worst is behind us.” 

“So, we’re Scotland-bound?” asks Xander.

“Wait, hold on. I've been fighting these guys for years. There’s no way they’ve just decided to close up shop,” Angel tells the Scoobies. Buffy swears there’s a hint of disappointment in his voice. 

“Angel, their army is gone. There’s not much you can do without an army,” Xander returns before awkwardly looking at the God across the table. “No offense ...”

“Perhaps some of us should stay behind to be safe,” Giles suggests. “What do you think, Buffy?” 

The five foot tall Commander in Chief takes a few moments to think over her former Watcher’s proposal. 

“We can’t wait around forever for another army to show up. By that logic, we should've anticipated The First to make an uber-vamp-sized comeback.” Buffy takes a look around the room at her friends, who seem to agree with what she’s saying. “But instead, we focused on things we _can_ change. Like helping these girls.” She traces her thumb along the outline of her jaw, weighing her options. “The Scottish squad gets bigger every day. I have more and more girls showing up that need training. I can’t stay here.” 

“What about me, Buff? I can stay,” Willow offers, followed by a faint frown from her bestest friend. 

Willow has spent more time away from Xander and Buffy in the last year than she has during their entire friendship. As the Slayer Organization grows, their individual talents are needed all over the globe, which means the Scoobies usually have to split up during non-apocalyptic times. _If it’s selfish to want us all to be in one place for longer than a day … then I guess I’m selfish._ Despite Buffy’s greedy desires, she’s always willing to put them aside for the good of the group.

“If you want to stay, Will, that’s good with me. I’ll stick around for a few more days and then we’ll be in touch,” Buffy declares, trying to keep all emotion out of it.

“I can stay too,” says Andrew. “The Slayers in Italy aren’t really taking to my authority. I think it’s a cultural thing.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it,” Faith quips, throwing a leg up on the table. The rain outside seems to have settled down as a tiny ray of sunlight peaks in from the bottom of the blinds and dances on the floor.

“This is unnecessary. My team can handle the Senior Partners, we’ve been doing fine for years,” Angel chimes in.

Xander looks around the room with a furrowed brow. “Uh … what team?” 

“Me and … Illyria.” Angel says pathetically, wracking his brain for more potential candidates. “Spike, I guess. Oh, I have a friend in New York I can call. Gwen. I’m sure Gwen is available.”

“Great, you and your three friends can take down an all-ancient evil by yourself. Let us know how that goes,” Xander sasses. Angel is about to unleash a long-awaited insult on him before Buffy pipes up. 

“You need us, Angel. Whether you like it or not,” she says. “We’ll do our best not to step on your team’s toes.” 

Angel calms to Buffy’s voice, settling back into his chair. He notices that Illyria looks unsure of what to do with this emotion-fueled conversation. Angel wonders what she’s thinking. _Probably ... ‘pitiful humans. Their lust and attachments make them lesser beings. They are the muck at my feet.”_ Illyria’s annoying speechifying is so ingrained in Angel’s brain that he hears it even when she isn’t speaking. _Just … kill me,_ he thinks to himself. 

“Does anyone want to add anything before we close out?” Buffy asks the group.

“You reek of my pet,” Illyria directs at the blonde Slayer. “Why is he not in attendance?”

“I’m sorry, your _what?_ ”

“She means Spike,” Angel says through gritted teeth. “He _does_ have a pungent odor.” 

_Great. More jealous vampire crap._

Giles conceals a look of … worry? Anger? Disappointment? Buffy refuses to give it her attention.

“Okay, can we just -”

“I don’t know, I think Spike smells nice,” Andrew adds on to the conversation. “Kind of flowery with like ... a _smidgen_ of death.”

_I need to get out of here_ , is all Buffy can think.

While they speculate about Spike’s scent, Xander tries to strike up a conversation with the glowering Illyria.

“So, like, what’s your story? Do you come with a Thor Hammer?” 

“She’s not an action figure, Xander,” Willow reprimands him from across the table, although the answer starts to peak her interest seconds later. She turns toward Illyria abruptly. “Wait, do you?”

“I carry no weapon but my body,” the all-powerful and alluring God tells them. Xander and Willow send each other another message with their eyes: _I think I’m in love with her._

“Everyone cool if I open the window? We could use some sun in here.” Robin already has his hand on the blinds’ ladder string when a few shrieks from Buffy and Willow stop him. He turns around to find that Angel has thrown himself into a dark, isolated corner.

“Uh … what’s the problem?”

“Angel’s a vampire,” Buffy informs him like he already knows the answer. She gets silence in return and decides to add on to her previous statement. “And you know … sunlight equals bad.”

“Yeah, no, I got that part,” Robin says, backing away from the window and readjusting his tie, a ritual that seems to help him unwind. “I just thought someone might give me a heads-up.” He sits back down in his chair with the intention of playing nice - although he _really_ doesn’t want to. 

The tension in the boardroom grows stronger than ever. Buffy feels for the man before her. The child of a Slayer, Robin Wood lost his mom too young - and to _Spike_ , a demon who the Scoobies consider an ally. Robin’s defensiveness, sensitivity and lack of trust are all things to be expected in a room with a vampire, a demon-god, an ex and a Slayer who often forgets to text him important details. But his special hatred for blood-suckers is something Buffy didn’t put a lot of thought into before bringing two of them into his Headquarters. 

“Before you get all vampire-huntery, just know: Angel has saved more people than anyone I know. And I don’t mean saved like … just pulling someone out of a burning building. He’s saved people’s souls, man,” Faith praises him while leaning back in her chair. She gives Angel a half-smile and he almost - _almost_ \- returns it. Buffy watches them look at each other from across the room and wonders what exactly went on between them in L.A. _It doesn’t matter … it’s none of my business._

Robin tries to maintain a professional manner, though he’s close to losing it, which Faith can sense. She knows it’s time to back off, but she can’t let go of how he reprimanded her earlier in front of everyone. Willow watches the changes in Faith’s face, knowing she’s about to say something to antagonize him further.

“Anyways, we’ll do better at communication stuff. Sorry about that,” Willow quickly tells Robin and then bites down on her lip. Faith scowls at the girl who robbed her of a bitchy moment.

“The energy is so weird in here. Did someone cut the cheese?” Andrew can’t help himself from saying.

His ridiculous comment is the last straw for half the group’s focus and the other half’s patience. Everybody breaks out into their own bickering conversations - some more hostile than others - while Buffy stands at the head of the table, massaging her temples. She takes another look around at the strange mix of people.

_I think we just put our fingers on why the Scoobies and Angel Investigations never joined forces._

“Enough!” Buffy bellows, resulting in sweet silence. “Well, I think that about wraps it up,” she concludes with a fake smile, eager to get the hell out of this meeting. “Thanks for coming, everyone. We’ll reconvene soon.” 

The sound of people getting up from their chairs and exiting the room is a soothing elixir to Buffy’s headache. 

“Listen, Buffy,” Robin says to her on his way out the door. “I apologize for how I acted earlier. I’m very defensive of these girls and I want to make sure they’re protected,” he finishes sincerely. 

“I understand. But remember - _the mission is what matters,_ ” Buffy tells him. “Our emotions are assets, but we should be using them to make us better warriors. Not allowing them to get the best of us. Okay?”

From the abrupt shift in Robin’s demeanor, Buffy can tell he’s about to say something she doesn’t want to hear.

“You know I have the utmost respect for you, Buffy, I really do. But did you find yourself wedged between two vampires - defending them at every turn - because ‘the mission is what matters’?” Buffy doesn’t have an immediate verbal response; only vexation brewing inside her. “I’m sorry if I’m out of line -”

“You are.”

“I just know … Giles wants to say something to you but he’s afraid he’ll lose his Slayer.” They both look over at Buffy’s old Watcher and current father-figure cleaning his glasses. “I figured I’d take the bullet for him.” Buffy looks back into Robin’s heavy, brown eyes but remains silent. “It was good seeing you, Buffy. Let me know if you need anything while you’re here.” And just like that, he’s gone with the rest of the migraine-inducing humans.

_He means well but … wow, I want to hit him right now._

Outside the boardroom, Willow waits for Faith, who storms out the door in a fit of petty annoyance. She carries irritation with her in every miniscule movement as she pulls her brown hair into a high ponytail and huffs while doing so. Willow catches the brunette with her mousy voice before she gets too far.

“Hi,” Willow says, speeding up her pace so she’s beside Faith.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Five-by-five.” 

“You don’t have to lie,” Willow assures her.

“You don’t even know what five-by-five means, Red.”

“Then why do you keep saying it to me?!”

“It makes you angry. And then you squirm,” Faith responds in her smokey, flirtatious tone.

Willow tries to hide her blushing eyes from the saucy Slayer who simply can’t help but toy with her. 

“Okay, well. If you need to talk or something, I’m here.” Willow begins walking away, nervously fiddling with the loose thread hanging off of her fuzzy sweater.

“Hey,” Faith calls after her from across the corridor, prompting Willow to stop dead in her tracks. “Thanks,” is all she manages to say.

Willow’s lips curve into a soft smile as she faces away from her and continues walking, leaving Faith alone in the hallway with her own haughty smirk. 

“See you tonight,” Faith mumbles to herself before strutting off into the direction of her room.


	11. Back to Basics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to follow my fanfic/spuffy instagram account, it's @chosentonotfadeaway :-)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Buffy prowls through Lake View’s fog-filled Cemetery with a wooden stake in her fist and a hunger for violence in her belly. After a rough day at the office - a.k.a the meeting from Hell, the Slayer is more than ready to show some lurking demons what she’s made of. Unfortunately, the only thing infesting these grounds are the two vampires that tagged along with her. A few yards away is Spike, who crouches behind a gravestone with his hand on a dagger. Buffy can see the smallest wisps of crinkly bleach-blonde hair blowing in the wind above the stone that cloaks him. Not too far from him stands Angel, dressed in shadows beside a mausoleum. Buffy notes the music his heavy trench coat makes in the breeze, blowing his cover. _It’s a good thing those vamps aren’t on my hit list because they would’ve been super-slayed by now._ While Buffy, Spike and Angel skulk in the remarkably dead graveyard, Faith and her squad of newbie Slayers are tackling the back entrance. _Maybe that’s where all the action is_ , Buffy thinks. She waits a few moments more before loosening out of her Slayer stance and walking towards the two vampires in hiding.

“Are we sure there’s a Hellmouth here? What gives?” she complains, her lower lip protruding into a sulky pout. There was a time when Buffy would’ve loved to take an evening off and curl up in a blanket next to her stuffed-pig, Mr. Gordo. But with the uncertainty of every night in a post-“Wanna be a Slayer” spell world, slaying has quickly become the only constant Buffy has in her life - and she needs it.

Angel emerges from the darkness in response to her voice as Spike simultaneously pops up from his headstone like a groundhog. Buffy finds herself in the middle of their triangle.

“Yeah, this place isn’t exactly crawling with vamps. Might have better luck at a shopping center,” Angel says sarcastically.

“I _did_ actually have a run-in with a vamp at a mall once,” Buffy responds. Angel’s eyes perk up at her words, a disbelieving smile creeping up on his face. “True story. Remember the Gorch brothers?

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles. “Those were some … long patrol nights.”

The memory of them making out in a graveyard for hours instead of searching for Lyle and Tector Gorch is suddenly taking up shop in their brains. The two of them share an ambiguous smile before clearing their throats. The remembrance of two very different people in a _very_ different time is a comfort to Buffy and Angel, whose lives have only gotten more complicated since parting. Watching this strangely sentimental interaction between them go down, Spike is unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He wants to hide his feelings, contain them inside his clenched jaw and never breathe a word about them. But the way Buffy’s looking at Angel is making Spike want to put his fist through the wall of the crypt even more. He swallows hard and turns to another coping mechanism of his - smoking. Leaning up against the tomb, Spike pulls a loose cigarette out of his leather pocket along with a vintage lighter. He stows it between his pouty lips and lights up the end of it without noticing that Buffy’s been watching him.

“Smoking is bad for your lungs. No, seriously. I heard it on TV once,” Buffy quips to the bleach-blonde vampire.

“Yeah, I think Will mentioned that. Fortunately for me, I don’t breathe. Or care,” he shrugs, pulling the smoke into his mouth before exhaling it into Angel’s stone-cold face. “What are you staring at, peaches?”

“Nothing, I just forgot you were here until you started talking,” Angel replies, his voice devoid of emotion.

“Now, now. I thought couples therapy was working for us,” Spike jokes, with subtle contempt on the edge of his speech.

“That’s a pleasing image,” Buffy says to herself before snapping out of it. “How did you two manage it in L.A. without killing each other?” she asks, twirling the stake in her hand.

Angel and Spike glance at each other and recall every ridiculous fight they’ve had in the last year - some more violent than others. Images of spilled blood and words than can never be taken back crowd their memories.

“Plain luck,” Angel answers her in a huff.

“Well, it’s nice to imagine you two working together. Weird and unnatural, but nice.”

“I mean, we didn’t really work together,” Spike chimes in. “If anything, we worked separately, _next_ to each other.”

“Yeah, and I wouldn’t exactly call what Spike was doing ‘work,’” says Angel.

Spike takes another puff of smoke and narrows his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just … nevermind.”

“Say it, you sod.”

“It’s just … you kinda did the bare minimum. Not exactly an inspiring hero,” Angel says with a shrug. Buffy’s eyes widen at him. _Uh oh. He pulled the hero card._ In that moment, she realizes that Angel knows exactly what to say to push Spike’s buttons - and vice versa.

“You mean I saved lives _without_ brooding, you insufferable tit?” Spike retorts.

“I think maybe you fought a bit harder when there was someone there to pat you on the back,” Angel can’t help himself from saying. _Suddenly the three of us out on patrol together sounds like a very bad, no good idea,_ Buffy thinks.

“Maybe we should split up and continue this incredibly civil conversation later,” she suggests, stepping between their huffing chests.

Angel and Spike are about to protest when an ear-splitting howl fills the air and shakes the ground beneath their feet. _That sound._ Buffy’s eyes wander up to the sky and find a glistening full moon staring back at her. Suddenly the graveyard is alive, and ready to give them the fight they long for.

“Werewolf,” Buffy mutters, her thoughts racing toward her next move.

“Buggar,” Spike says in response, his cigarette still wedged between his lips.

“Tranquilizer. I need a tranquilizer,” she concludes, frantically searching for the weapon like it might appear out of thin air. Buffy instinctually looks to the two of them for help.

“I think I saw one in the van,” Angel announces in an obsequious voice. “I’ll run over and grab it.”

“The Big, Strapping Hero,” Spike says through gritted teeth, dropping his cig to the ground and stepping on it with the outsole of his boot. “ _I’ll_ go get it.”

“Fine, suit yourself.”

Angel’s shift in tone causes Spike to have an immediate change of heart.

“Oh, right. So you can stay here with Buffy? Fat chance. Go fetch the gun, you sod,” he says.

Angel scoffs, hovering over Spike’s head in an attempt to intimidate him. “You’re out of your depth, Spike.”

“Oh, is that right?” He mimics Angel’s domineering posture.

Another explosive howl rumbles through the graveyard, causing the two vamps to look over and find that the girl of their desire has already left in search of her tranquilizer gun. In the cold silence comes the realization that even when there _isn’t_ a hunt at stake, Buffy doesn’t have time for their issues with each other - especially the ones that involve her. Spike and Angel exchange a look of irritation with one another before following the wolf’s sharp cries.

Across the cemetery, Faith and the Slayers find themselves face-to-face with the manic beast. Its unpredictable movements, razor-sharp teeth and menacing growl are enough to terrify even Faith, who shouts, “You want this? Come and get it!,” before running the opposite way. Her heartbeat accelerates as she can feel the werewolf’s attention shift to her. It snarls and bolts in the direction of the firecracker Slayer, who then tries to lead it into a crypt to be locked inside.

“C’mon, c’mon,” she mutters. Sensing her motives, the werewolf abandons its initial impulse to follow her and springs towards one of the other Slayers. Faith turns herself around to find that the beast has trampled one of the girls to the ground, with her crossbow just out of reach. The young Slayer squirms beneath the wolf’s heavy mass, shrieking all the while.

“No, no, no, you little shit!” Faith upbraids while running toward the fight with slayer speed. A few others attempt to restrain the animal without tranquilizer guns and without causing serious bodily harm, as they were taught in training. However, as newbies who don’t totally understand their powers yet, they’re having some difficulty.

The red scythe in hand, Faith comes to an abrupt stop before the struggling girls and raises her weapon in the air above the werewolf’s neck. A voice creeps into her thoughts.

_A werewolf is a person 28 days out of the month. Don’t kill it._

The scythe wavers in her hands as she musters up a response.

_It’s gonna kill the girl. I have to do something._

_Then do something._

Faith twists her weapon and knocks the werewolf to the ground with the scythe’s flat metal side, releasing the girl from its hold. The young Slayer at her feet is still reeling from the experience. As the werewolf darts off in the other direction, Faith extends a hand to her and says, “You good, Annie?”

“Is it always like this?” she asks, taking her hand and brushing the dirt off of her clothes. Faith doesn’t respond; instead, she flashes empathic, ebony eyes at Annie and follows the rest of the rookie Slayers as they chase after the werewolf.

Meanwhile, an exasperated Spike and Angel spare no effort to trace the wooly demon that roams the cemetery.

“You stupid git! It went that way!” Spike barks at him, pointing east with his black nail-polished finger.

“I think I know how to track a werewolf, Spike,” Angel grumbles, continuing west.

“Why, because your super-honey is one?” Spike puts his hands on his waist, taunting Angel like it’s his God-given right. “Speaking of - shouldn’t you be checking on her? Or do you always prefer to leave your girl behind?”

Angel clenches his fists in response to Spike. Before the big battle with the Senior Partners’ army, he gave his werewolf girlfriend, Nina, a one-way ticket out of L.A and out of his life. He managed to keep her out of his head too, until now; until _Spike._

“She’s better off without me,” he finally says.

Spike is miffed by his words - especially due to how territorial he was acting with Buffy a few minutes ago.

“And Buffy isn’t?”

“She is,” Angel sighs deeply. “She’s better off without you too,” he finishes before turning towards Spike. They look at each other with fiercely dark eyes, centuries of frustration and jealousy flowing through them. Spike suppresses a growl as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his long, leather jacket. He has a chest full of witty responses reserved for his vampire foe - most of them carefully crafted insults. But Spike doesn’t use them because he knows Angel’s right.

Before the tension between them reaches a breaking point, Angel is tackled to the ground by the werewolf they both had forgotten about. They bare their bumpy foreheads and fangs at each other, wrestling and flipping over a few times on the heavy soil. Spike stands a couple feet away, taking great pleasure in watching the werewolf slobber all over Angel’s face.

“Need a hand there?”

“Nope,” Angel grumbles. “I got it.”

“Suit yourself,” Spike says without a nanosecond of hesitation. “Wanker.”

Faith and her squad of Slayers find themselves in a circle around the werewolf-vampire pissing contest, exchanging looks of _what the hell are we supposed to do?_ In an extremely timely moment, a hypodermic needle thrusts into the werewolf’s back, triggering a low moan and a slow fall to the ground. The group swivels around to find Buffy with her tranquilizer gun.

“Wow, were we so not prepared for werewolves tonight,” the Chosen One says, lowering the weapon from her face and revealing a look of relief. Faith walks toward her with crossed arms, as if to cover a scared heartbeat that nobody can see or hear.

“We could really use a weapon with like, multiple settings,” she responds to the quippy blonde.

“Like a stake that duals as a tranquilizer gun?” The idea grows on her in the moment. “Wow, I’m getting Xander on that immediately.”

Buffy looks over at Spike and Angel, who look ready to stake themselves any minute now. Somehow, someway, they were able to set aside their differences for the greater good when they were in L.A. But the addition of Buffy into their lives has complicated things - and she knows it. She also knows that Angel will be fine; he built a life for himself outside of her; one with the love of other women, a child, a family. Spike, however, is less inclined to let things go and move on. And as hard as it is for her to admit it after all this time, she really doesn’t want him to.

The Slayers lift the sedated werewolf over their shoulders and carry it back to the van as Angel and Faith follow behind. Buffy locks eyes with Spike and moves toward him slowly. She waits for the squad to turn into small dots in the distance before opening her mouth, but Spike talks first.

“What, you don’t want to take an evening stroll with your sweetie bear?” he says boldly, gesturing to Angel from afar.

“I take it you’re upset,” Buffy says with a furrowed brow, leaning her side up against a graveyard statue.

“I’m not upset,” Spike replies, clearly upset. “I thoroughly enjoyed watching you two lovebirds reminisce about the good old days. Makes a fella feel all warm inside.” He rubs over his chest in order to make his point and Buffy watches with pointed eyes.

“It didn’t mean anything,” she assures him.

“Have I mentioned he wears lifts?”

Buffy rolls her eyes and huffs at Spike. He can tell by the expression on her face that she’s gonna try to fix things.

“Spike -”

“No, it’s okay,” Spike interrupts in a softer voice than before, realizing he might be overreacting. “I’m being …” he stops himself. “You don’t have to make it better. You’re free to do whatever you like, Slayer.”

 _Slayer._ It feels like such a cold nickname for her right now.

“As usual, I don’t know what we are or where we stand or what to say,” he continues. “Maybe it’s best if it stays that way.”

Buffy feels now is as good a time as any to bring up something that’s been on her mind for days.

“Spike,” she starts. “Can you be honest with me about something?”

His eyes soften on hers. He nods slowly.

“What’s the real reason you didn’t find me after you came back? After you … corporealized or whatever.”

“I told you.”

“No,” Buffy replies with a deep, penetrating gaze that Spike can’t hide from. “The _real_ reason.”

Spike exhales deeply into the night. He was hoping to not have this conversation in a Cleveland cemetery - or _ever_.

“There's always been a … question hanging over us. A question I’ve been too scared to answer. ‘Course when the fiery depths of Hell swallowed me whole, I didn’t have to. I died for the person … for the world I love, and that was enough.” His eyes wander back to hers. “But then I came back. And the question was still there. I knew if I saw you again, I’d have to face it, so I … I didn’t. Call me a coward, if ya like.” It’s silent for a bit, before he continues. “And now I’m with you again, after so long, and I should be happy, and I am, but … the bloody question. It’s still there. Hanging over us. Over me.”

Buffy struggles to maintain her stoic composure as she looks back into Spike’s midnight blue eyes.

“What is it? The question?”

“Do I deserve you?”

“Spike,” she repeats more gently than she ever has.

“And as much as I want to … I don’t. I know I don’t. I’m a fool for even entertaining the idea,” he tells her. “You are ... better off without me.”

Buffy takes a brief intermission from their conversation to think over his words. She cups her hands together and brings them to her face while Spike watches - terrified.

“I don’t know what this is,” she finally admits. “What we are … I don’t think there’s a word for it exactly.”

“You don’t have to -”

“But what I do know is this: I just spent the last year without your long-winded passionate rants and references to Shakespeare’s literary works. And I wouldn’t say I was better off. I wouldn’t say that at all.” Buffy places the palm of her hand on Spike’s cheek, her thumb gently grazing the sharpness of his jaw. His eyes fill with surprise as she does this. For a brief moment in time, Spike lets himself give in to her words; bask in the affection she’s offering him. But Angel’s influence over him is too powerful to stay in that place forever. _She’s better off without you too._

Pained, Spike gives Buffy a weak smile and drops his gaze to the ground. The spell is broken.

“We should probably go. Doe eyes and the Big Hunk of Nobody Cares will be wondering why we fell behind,” says Spike. They both start walking toward the black gate in the distance, passing a variety of headstones on the way. Spike fills the silence by humming I Wanna Be Sedated by _The Ramones_ , which makes Buffy look at him strangely before eventually joining in. Spike’s lips curve into a smirk.

_Since when does she like The Ramones?_


	12. One Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NSFW

Willow walks briskly down the empty corridor on her way to Faith’s room. She moves with a confidence she didn’t know she had before reaching her destination; her eyes center on three digits beside a door. 

_Room 243. This is it._

Rounding her hand into a fist, she knocks - or rather, _pounds_ \- on the entrance. A few horrifying seconds pass before the door whips open to reveal a dazzling beauty. Willow’s eyes sharpen as they take in Faith, who wears nothing but a pair of black underwear and a white-knit tank on her curvaceous body. A godless grin expands on her face as she rests one arm on the doorway and places her other hand on her hip, staring Willow down.

“Come to borrow sugar, neighbor?” Faith asks, her voice aiming for innocence. 

“So to speak,” Willow trembles. A light flickers eerily in the hallway and she wonders if her magic is responsible for it. Faith steps aside, allowing her room to enter - a request Willow accepts with vigor. The brunette shuts the door and locks it before turning around to make a move on Willow, who jumps away in response.

“Wait! A-Aren’t we gonna talk first?” 

" _Talk?_ ” Faith raises an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, talk _._ ”

“Oh, you mean like pick a safe word? How about -”

“No, I mean … like … talk. About our days,” she says nervously. “I’ll go first. This morning, I took a stroll in the park and saw the cutest little duck family -”

“Willow, you didn’t come here to make smalltalk,” Faith interrupts. She suddenly sounds a little disappointed by the idea that Willow might not be serious about tonight. “ _Did you?_ ”

Willow lets herself breathe for a minute.

_I can do this. I want this._

“... no, I didn't come here to make ‘smalltalk’,” she admits quietly, her eyes oozing with desire. Faith’s sexually-charged smirk returns. 

“Just relax,” Faith drawls and takes another step towards her. “I’ll take care of you.” She traces an erect finger along Willow’s exposed neckline, soft and slow. The red-head swallows hard as Faith begins tugging lightly at her jacket collar, shoving it off and over her freckled shoulders. She stands before her in a fuzzy, oversized sweater and Faith sniggers at the sight. 

“Today’s the day you chose to wear layers, hm?” Faith looks at Willow’s shirt as if it’s just another challenge she gets to overcome. Her face turning red, Willow presses her lips together and attempts to remove her own shirt. Faith’s hand stops her. 

“I got it,” she assures her in a raspy baritone, slowly moving down to her knees. Willow’s eyes track Faith’s movement carefully as she lifts the corners of her sweater and presses her warm lips against her belly. _Gulp._ Willow shudders, involuntarily placing her hands on Faith’s shoulders as full, rosy lips travel up her body and between her breasts. Hiding inside the darkness of her shirt so Willow can’t see what she’s doing, Faith unclasps her bra with one swift movement and lets it drop to the floor. Willow’s heart begins to race as Faith’s lips embrace her cold, hard nipples, circling them with her soft tongue. 

_Oh … wow ..._

Willow’s hands advance behind Faith’s ears and through her long, wavy hair, feeling a sudden urge to grip it tightly through her fingers - and she does. Faith purrs against pale skin and nibbles harder in response, smirking at the tender moan it earns from Willow. 

Faith’s hands demand that the sweater come off and Willow obeys, lifting her arms in the air at the woman’s request. Faith drags her tongue along Willow’s collarbone, pulling her shirt up simultaneously until it’s another item of clothing on the floor. Now a shivering mess, Willow instinctively clings to Faith’s body for warmth as a trail of wet, hot kisses are left on her neck. Another moan escapes her mouth, aching for Faith to consume her.

_Yup, there’s no going back from this._

Faith draws her lower lip over Willow’s jawline and meets her lips with a rough, hot-blooded kiss. Willow crumbles into a thousand pieces and moves her hands up Faith’s braless back, feeling every curve of her spine while Faith’s fingers find the waistline of her pants. She trembles against her touch, terrified and excited for what’s coming next. 

Faith gives her a look - a hungry, passion-filled look - before backing Willow into the bed behind her. She wedges herself between Willow’s legs and teases her pants down to her ankles while Willow lays back into the mattress. She gazes at Faith lingering above her panties with venomous eyes and she nibbles her bottom lip in anticipation. She feels a sensual chuckle vibrate against her entrance before teeth clamp onto her underwear and pull them down her body. Willow watches the animalistic woman linger over her exposed lower-half before slipping two fingers deep inside of her, leaving her tongue to massage Willow’s clit. She moans breathily into the air, panting and squirming against the bed - in a world of ecstasy. Faith squeezes Willow’s thighs for support, digging her claws into them as she increases her speed and pressure. 

“You like that?” Faith purrs. Willow nods rapidly in response.

“Yes … _yes_ ... “ she moans, clenching the bed sheets beneath her. 

Willow rocks her hips steadily against Faith’s tongue, losing herself in its soft and swift movement - until she can’t take any more.

_Oh … my … goddess ..._

At the height of Willow’s desire, something takes her over. Suddenly all nervousness washes away and all she wants is Faith; her scent, her moans, her everything. A blinding white consumes Willow’s emerald eyes as she takes hold of Faith’s curves, flipping her onto her back.

“What the …” Faith’s voice trails off in confusion. 

Willow climbs on top of Faith’s voluptuous figure and pins her hands against the bed frame, the witch’s skin warm with something other than desire. Faith catches Willow’s colorless lenses staring back at her and she is suddenly out of her element.

“Magic,” Faith whispers involuntarily, scanning the goddess’s face. Faith has witnessed every otherworldly force in the book - demons, Slayers, commitment - but witchcraft is something that continues to baffle her. With an angelic glow lighting up her skin, Willow hovers over Faith’s body and draws a finger across the waistband of her lace panties. 

“Just relax,” the wicca whispers in an otherworldly voice. “I’ll take care of you.”

Faith’s eyes widen a little bit, surprised by how quickly the roles changed and how quickly she was okay with it. Faith has grown accustomed to being the one in charge and has forgotten what being on the other side of _this_ feels like. She watches Willow’s starry eyes refocus on her underwear, using her magic to make them disappear. 

_That was … impressive,_ Faith thinks to herself. 

“I really hope those aren’t floating in another dimension somewhe-” 

“Shhh …” the witch purrs gently against her wetness, shutting Faith up immediately. Willow’s hands vibrate with warm static as they graze the Slayer’s inner thighs, causing her to tremble in anticipation. Willow sinks down until her lips meet Faith’s throbbing entrance with a stream of fiery kisses. Faith’s body is _pleading_ for more.

“What do you want?” Willow asks slowly. Her voice is melodic like that of a siren as she lingers between Faith’s legs.

“What do I want?” 

“Mhm …” 

She’s not used to being asked the question. There’s something nurturing in Willow’s gaze that awakens something inside Faith that she chooses to ignore.

“I … I want you,” Faith answers, trying to maintain her seductive voice but failing completely.

Willow responds by sliding her silky tongue between Faith’s walls, causing her lower body to twitch from the sensation. Faith’s toes curl into the bed while her hand finds a chunk of Willow’s hair to latch onto. 

“Mmm …” Faith growls lightly. She screws her eyes shut, letting her head fall against the pillow. 

A lightning bolt of pleasure flows through her as Willow’s tongue begins moving at an inhuman speed. Faith grips tightly onto Willow’s lock of hair, her hips slowly levitating off the bed; Faith assumes it’s her own euphoria playing tricks on her until she opens her eyes and realizes they are in mid-air. Five feet off the bed, Willow and Faith lose themselves in their own world. Faith helplessly and rhythmically rolls her hips against Willow’s tongue, surrendering completely to her mystical sexual partner. Willow increases her pressure with every heavenly thrust and Faith finally breaks. She howls out something that resembles Willow’s name as she reaches her peak, her orgasm lasting longer than usual. Faith whimpers underneath the witch’s enchanting figure and twitches once more before gently falling back onto the bed. They breathe together in silence for some time, and as Faith looks up at the ceiling, she swears she can see stars.


	13. I'll Never Tell

With worn-down GameCube controllers in their hands, Andrew and Illyria sit on a utilitarian sofa in the Cleveland branch’s common area. The hobbit-like man and omnipotent God couldn’t be more contrary; not just in their histories, identities, appearances, and abilities, but in the simple yet distinct ways they each carry themselves. Andrew slouches against the brutally orange cushions, desperately trying to satisfy an itch on his elbow that refuses to cease. He constantly readjusts for comfort and runs a hand absentmindedly through his messy curls every few minutes. Illyria, however, remains utterly stationary. She doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t breath, doesn’t blink. She sits erect on the couch, staring straight ahead with her ethereal blue eyes. They are polar opposites, in every way, shape and form, united only by an interest in video games. 

As the menu screen appears on the TV in front of them, Andrew shifts his head toward Illyria to give her instructions.

“So, you have to collect the fruit -”

“I know,” Illyria interrupts in her stoic voice. “I have completed this mission before.”

“You’ve played _Super Monkey Ball_?”

“Yes. I adapt quickly,” she tells him, holding the controller upside down. Andrew carefully flips it over in her hands and laughs nervously as Illyria watches with pointed eyes.

“Works better if you … yeah. Okay. So, if I happen to beat you, you’re not going to like … kill me, right?” he asks with a hopeful smile.

“I assure you, I am not easily bested.”

“Y-You didn’t … answer … the question …” Andrew’s voice trails off. 

“Let us begin.”

The sound of video game chaos fills the room as Buffy storms into the nearby kitchen with Faith’s spirited voice following behind.

“So, here’s what I’m thinking,” Faith begins. Buffy can tell she’s gonna try to convince her to do something. “The girls could use a night off-”

“Faith -” 

“They’ve been working so hard -”

“There’s no way.” Buffy grabs a strange-looking muffin from the tile countertop and sniffs it. “Is this blueberry or chocolate?” she asks herself before turning to the almost-empty common room next door and raising her voice. “Is it so hard to leave a sign?!” 

“Come on, B,” Faith says, trying to regain her attention. “We know _better than anyone_ that this job isn’t possible without a healthy self-care routine.”

“I don’t see how bar-hopping is a healthy form of self-care,” Buffy responds with a mouthful of muffin. “Ha! _Chocolate_!”

“I never said bar-hopping,” Faith notes with a shrug. “Those are your words, not mine. _But_ I will say, a lot of the Slayers _are_ 21 -” 

“And a lot of them aren’t. I’m sure some of the girls are perfectly content coping with slayage by staying in and curling up with a good book or -” Buffy is interrupted by Faith’s cynical laughter, which makes something inside of her flinch. “What the hell is so funny?”

“Curling up with a good book? What _happened_ to you, B?” Buffy groans at her and walks toward the library section of the common area. Faith speeds after and continues. “What happened to the girl who used to study at the Bronze just as an excuse to dance her ass off and flirt with cute boys?” 

“She grew up,” Buffy says with a smudge of chocolate on the corner of her lip. 

“I beg to differ,” Faith says, blocking Buffy from storming away again. “That girl’s still in there. And she’s _itching_ for a good time.”

“Am not,” she lies. Detecting the smallest smile on Buffy’s face, Faith points to her.

“Are too!” 

The former enemies are on the cusp of being playful with each other - the way they were before their relationship went downhill. Realizing this at the same time and feeling moderately uncomfortable by it, the girls clear their throats.

“I suppose we could all use a night out to unwind,” the blonde concludes with an exhausted sigh. It’s far too early for Buffy to argue with Faith, who never lets up. 

“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!” Faith cheers, smacking the library table’s surface victoriously after winning over Buffy. “I’ll let the squad know,” she adds, wearing a mischievous grin that makes Buffy twinge again.

_What the hell has Faith in such a good mood today?_

Faith turns around and finds that Willow has stumbled into the room holding a stack of books that partially cover her face. They share an ambiguous look while Buffy gets distracted by her muffin.

“Oh, hi. I-I was just returning some books. Here. A-At the library. Where the books live,” Willow stammers. 

Faith, who is a lot more skilled at ‘playing it cool', gives her a simple shrug.

“Return away,” she says before turning back to Buffy. “Gotta jet. Later, B.”

On her way out the door, Faith brushes against Willow’s side sneakily and whispers, “Broom closet in ten.”

Willow’s olive eyes go wide in response to the slithering beauty’s words. She chews on the inside of her lip and forgets what she came to the room to do in the first place. Last night in Faith’s bedroom, Willow did three things she’s never done before: she hooked up with someone she wasn’t in a committed relationship with; she let her magic take over in a way she didn’t think was possible; and another thing ...

“Hey, Wil, got a second?” Buffy asks Willow, snapping her back into reality. 

“What? Huh? What?” she says, looking up to find her friend’s earnest gaze. Her eyes are already hot with passion thinking about the night before. “Oh, sure, Buff. What’s up?” 

Buffy follows Willow’s rapid steps towards the stacks and begins talking before they get there.

“We captured a werewolf on patrol last night. He woke up this morning scared to death, had no idea what happened to him. Must’ve just turned,” Buffy informs her friend, who looks awfully distracted with making sure the books are put away in alphabetical order (but also in a timely fashion). “I um … I called Oz.” 

Willow’s head turns sharply towards Buffy, who continues.

“It’s just, he’s been helping other werewolves come to terms with the change and I thought -”

“No, no, it makes sense,” says Willow, storing one last book on the shelf. “So he’ll be coming here then?”

“Yeah. I mean, I still have a few more days until I’m Scotland-bound. I figured one more awkward reunion couldn’t hurt. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

Buffy carries on eating away at her chocolate dessert. Without words, they both make the decision to walk towards the exit through the kitchen. Willow takes a deep breath and finds Buffy’s chestnut eyes, a hesitant smile dawning on her face.

“It’ll be good to see him,” she says and almost means it. In that moment, Willow finally notices the smeared chocolate on Buffy’s face as they enter the kitchen. “Hey, Buff, you got a little some -”

The two girls stop abruptly at the sight of Spike sleepily standing in front of the microwave, heating up a mug of blood.

“Oh, hi,” Spike greets them both, though his eyes linger on Buffy, who stands there looking more perplexed than ever. 

“Spike … it’s daylight. What are you doing awake?” 

Willow raises an eyebrow at Buffy’s question, taken aback by the level of concern in her voice.

“A little B+ never hurt anyone,” Spike replies. “I mean, I suppose it would if I took it from the vein.” The joke doesn’t sit well with the women in front of him. “W-Which I wouldn’t.” _Wow, tough room,_ Spike thinks. “Anyways, a warm cup of blood helps a fella sleep. It’s a thing.” The microwave beeps. _Saved by the bell._ Buffy and Willow watch him pop open the oven and retrieve his blood before refocusing his gaze on the Slayer. He clocks the smudge of chocolate on Buffy’s mouth.

“Uh, you got a little something on your …” he says, gesturing to her lips. 

“What? I, _what_?” Buffy blushes brightly and starts frantically rubbing at her face with little accuracy. Spike reaches out with his thumb and casually swipes away the chocolate splotch on the corner of her lips, while Willow eyes the two of them. 

“There you are.” Spike smiles warmly at Buffy and is suddenly weirded out by his own boldness with her in public. “Right then,” he finally chokes out, leaving the room and taking the putrid scent of blood with him. Buffy waits until he’s far enough away to start ranting.

“ _God_ , I had food on my face the whole time?” she says, looking at her reflection on the stainless steel fridge to be sure it’s gone. “Of course _Faith_ would let me walk around like that,” she mumbles to herself before redirecting her attention to Willow. “At least _you_ tried to -” Buffy stops herself, noticing a bewildered look on her best friend’s face. “What is it?”

“Nothing, you guys just seemed … awfully cuddly-wuddly just now.”

“Who?” Buffy asks with squinting eyes. Willow glances at the door that Spike just exited through and then looks back to Buffy, who gets the message.

“What? No. We just … we have a … we’re not … we …” she splutters.

“Hm. Sounds boring and not at all complicated,” Willow responds cheekily as she links her arm through Buffy’s. The witch decides not to pry further, as she herself is engaging in a mysterious and morally questionable relationship - one she has to attend to in five minutes. “So warm blood helps vampires sleep?” Willow asks on their way out the door. “Is it like … the vampire equivalent of humans drinking warm milk before bed?” 

“Gross,” Buffy replies, wrapping an arm around Willow’s lower back. “But probably.”

* * *

With a sinuous movement in her walk, Faith makes her way to the nearest broom closet and is stopped by the sensation of being watched. She instinctively whips around with a raised fist and preps to fight the culprit before looking up at cold, brown eyes that she knows and loves.

“Angel,” she murmurs to the tall man hovering over her shoulder. “Sorry. Force of habit,” Faith adds while bringing her right hook down to her side. “But shit, use your words next time … instead of lurking in the shadows.”

“Sorry. Force of habit,” Angel responds in his signature shy-guy voice. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of being stalked this morning?” 

“Do you have a minute?”

“I have about five if you want ‘em,” Faith says, glancing at the closet door from afar. Angel pulls her aside gently, away from prying eyes and possible eavesdroppers. “By the way, isn’t it usually ‘lights out’ for the undead right now?” she asks, growing more and more confused by his mysterious behavior. Angel’s silence starts to worry her. “Dude, what’s wrong?”

“Do you know … if Buffy is seeing anyone?”

Faith’s narrow eyebrows curve downward as she looks at the mess of a man in front of her. She slumps forward and lets out an annoyed huff.

_Are you kidding me? He got all cryptic for that?_

“Angel, I’m gonna stop ya right there. I am _not_ the person to talk to about this,” Faith declares gruffly. “There are like, 200 other girls in this building who would love to play ‘high-school romance’ with you. Knock yourself out,” she finishes, giving him a bro-like slap on the shoulder before continuing her strut down the hall.

“Is it Spike?” he asks earnestly, frozen in place. “It’s Spike, right?” 

“I don’t exactly have insider knowledge on B’s personal life,” Faith grumbles, turning back around. “We just work together. Barely even that.” Angel notes the hint of hurt in her voice.

A part of Faith wishes that wasn’t true; that she could go back to ‘99 and have a fresh start with Buffy. The few months of gal-pal slayage, dancing at the Bronze without a care in the world and late-night hangs with Buffy were some of the best months of her life (though she’ll never admit it). She was a friend to her - a _real_ friend; the first one she ever had. However, the small slice of bliss that came with being Buffy Summers’ bud died when Faith took her first human life, along with any hope for reconciliation. 

Faith pulls herself together and finds the vampire’s curious stare.

“If anything, we work separately, next to each other,” she adds cynically, reminding Angel of someone.

“Yeah … I get that.”

The clock is ticking and Faith knows she has about one minute left before her afternoon rendezvous with Willow. Nonetheless, she can’t stop herself from saying what everyone in the building seems to know besides Angel.

“Listen, big guy, I know what this is and it is _not about Buffy._ If it was, it would be easier, wouldn’t it? You _know_ how that story ends and it doesn’t end happy,” Faith cruelly points out, causing Angel to avoid eye contact. “This is about _you_. This is about you moping around since you got here, acting like you don’t have a purpose anymore. You’re afraid to move on.”

His face is suddenly ridden with confusion - and offense. _Move on?_

“What? That’s not - ”

“Not from Buffy. From L.A,” she clarifies for him. 

Angel is shaken by her words. He had made great efforts in the last few years to not get too attached - to _anything_. He let go of Buffy so she could have a semblance of a normal life. He let go of saving Fred to save the world. He even let go of his own son so Connor could have a better future. But he underestimated how attached he’d get to L.A. - the place that showed him who he really could be.

“You lost everything. Everyone,” Faith utters with minimal effort to not hurt his feelings. “Sorry, but … it’s true, man. They’re gone and now you don’t even know who you are. So, what? You’re gonna run back to a doomed relationship to retain some kind of normalcy? Instead of facing your real problems?” 

Angel’s eyes say ‘ _Wow, harsh_ ’, but Faith doesn’t dial back her tough love. She knows she’s getting somewhere with him.

“Okay, fine. You’re not the CEO of some fancy-shmancy law firm anymore. Big deal, you look _kinda_ weird in suits and that place was _evil_ ,” she says sardonically. “And yes, you lost friends. But who here hasn’t?” 

The Mayor’s face pops into Faith’s head and she quickly pushes away the image before continuing.

“All of us are running from something.” There’s a shift in her voice, her body language, the look in her eyes. The woman in front of Angel is screaming for him to get the message. “But that’s why we fight. The mission hasn’t changed, Angel. _You_ have. And you gotta roll with it.” Faith considers putting a friendly hand on his arm or patting his back but decides it isn’t their style. “Plus, I care about you too much to watch you become a total loser.”

Angel takes a moment to think over Faith’s speech; to look for anything faulty in it. But he knows it’s useless. Everything she told him, _while heartless_ , was right; he doesn’t know who he is with the Scoobies because he didn’t find himself in Sunnydale; he found himself in L.A. - with his own team. 

“When did you become so insightful?” asks Angel.

“Probably sometime during my life-sentence.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t be taking advice from a wanted criminal.”

“With _your_ record? That’s exactly who you should be taking advice from. Who else here understands you?” 

“Touché,” he responds with a charming smile. “Thank you.”

“Hey, I figured you could use a friend,” she shrugs.

“Yeah, I seem to be lacking in that department. Which you so kindly pointed out to me. _Several_ times in the last few minutes.”

* * *

Willow sits in a dark and dank broom closet, quietly rehearsing how she’s going to greet Faith when she shows up for their morning hanky-panky.

“Oh, well, hello there, Ms. Lehane. Come here often?” she mumbles to herself before indulging in a series of giggles. Her joy is suddenly disrupted when she hears Faith and Angel walking down the hall together past the broom closet. She presses the side of her face against the wooden door, listening to their voices trail off and away. Willow glances at her watch and realizes how much time has passed since Faith was supposed to make an appearance.

_Is she … blowing me off? Th-This was her idea._

Willow sighs, disappointed and grumpy; she takes a moment to really think about Faith - what she _actually_ knows about her. 

_Rough childhood, complicated history with Buffy, reformed homicidal-maniac, hot, really hot, like too hot to be real, great in bed, yada, yada, yada …_

And then what everyone else says about Faith that Willow doesn’t want to believe. 

_She’s non-committal._

Willow is not aiming for a serious relationship. The only thing she’s aiming for is something different from what she’s experienced - and that’s Faith. Faith, who is walking away from _their_ date with Angel, a guy who she’s definitely expressed interest in in the past. 

_I’m not jealous, I’m not jealous, I am not jealous._

Willow slowly and silently opens the closet door, peeking her head out to view Angel and Faith as two little dots in the distance.

_She’s actually blowing me off …_

Willow squints at the distant figures and hears the faint sound of her lover’s venomous laughter at something Angel said. The witch’s heart falls into her stomach as she’s filled with a feeling she can’t convince herself isn’t jealousy. 

_I can’t do this._

Willow swallows hard and feels a sharp pain against her throat as she closes the door behind her. Her fingers curl into fists that she buries in her cardigan pockets before traipsing away back to her room, leaving behind her seven minutes in heaven. Willow’s phone vibrates against her trembling hand and she stops dead in her tracks. She lifts the small screen in front of her face to find a text from Faith. 

_Hey, I got held up talking strategy with Giles. Raincheck?_

Willow scowls at her phone and mumbles to herself.

“Really? You’re gonna include Giles in your lie? Truly diabolical,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. Willow stands in the middle of the corridor, considering Faith’s proposal of a raincheck.

_Her and Angel are probably just friends. But why lie to me? I mean, she’s not exactly his type. Then again, she’s not exactly my type either. God, maybe none of this was a good idea. It felt right. It did. Last night. This morning. Right up until this moment._

Willow paces back and forth in the narrow hallway, massaging her temples all the while. 

_We’re not exclusive. We’re not. But that doesn’t mean I agreed to being lied to. And manipulated. And played for a fool._

Her eyes heat up again but not with desire. With hot tears that bubble over her lenses. 

_Maybe I rushed into this._

Xander comes strolling down the hallway, obnoxiously humming the tune to “Accidentally in Love” by Counting Crows when he sees Willow leaned up against the wall. 

“Hey, Will.” His lackadaisical demeanor disappears completely when he sees the look on her face. “Will? Will, are you okay?” 

“Yeah.” She runs her thumb across the keyboard of her phone and deletes Faith’s message before returning to Xander’s worried eyes. “I’m fine.”


	14. What Happened To Us?

With luxuriant hair that’s pulled to one side and bubblegum pink lips curved into a smile, Buffy stands in front of her full-length mirror wearing a low-cut, off-shoulder tube top and a cheetah-print skirt. She swipes a blonde curl behind her ear, revealing a gold hoop that completes the fashion ensemble. 

_Yup. Still got it._

“Wow, you look slutty,” Dawn says as she bursts through Buffy’s bedroom door. She flumps down in a fold-up chair across from Buffy while texting on her blue, bedazzled flip phone.

“Nice to see you too, sis. What happened to studying for finals?”

“I needed a lunch break,” Dawn grumbles. “Why are you all dressed up? Are we celebrating something?” The insolent teenager pulls a turkey sandwich out of a plastic bag and begins chowing down like a wild hyena; Buffy frowns in mild disgust. 

“Well, we _did_ just win a war with -”

“So, Spike is alive. ‘Sup with that?” Dawn rudely interrupts with food in her mouth. Buffy groans at her sister. 

“You have been here all of three seconds and you’re already making me wish I was an only child,” she complains, sitting down on her bed and bouncing a few times. Dawn watches her with a cocked eyebrow. 

“Ouch. You’re touchy today. Something happen during the patrol … that I wasn’t invited to?” 

“No,” Buffy lies, throwing her back down on the mattress pathetically. “And can you stop chewing with your mouth open?” 

“First of all, if you tell me my eating habits annoy you, I’m just gonna keep doing ‘em.” A glob of saliva and turkey splatters across the bed as she squawks. “And second, I can always tell when you’re lying.” Dawn’s voice shifts into genuine concern for her sister. “What’s going on, Buffy?”

Buffy sits up on the mattress and leans toward Dawn’s chair, smiling faintly while she speaks.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she replies, stroking her fingers through Dawn’s hair affectionately. Buffy feels this is as good a time as any to bring up something that’s been on her mind for days. “So … why did you meet us in Cleveland … actually? I thought you liked Rome. The independence and everything.”

“No reason. Just missed hangin’ with the gang,” says Dawn, her eyes focused on the almost non-existent sandwich in her hands. Buffy narrows her eyes. _Who’s lying now?_

“Dawn,” she says authoritatively, prodding her sister to look at her directly.

“Okay, fine,” she instantly gives up. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what I want to do with the rest of my life -”

“Mhm.”

“... and how I haven’t really been much of a help to you guys over the years.”

“That’s okay, Dawn. Really. I want you to have as normal of a life as possible.”

“But that’s just it, Buffy. I’m never gonna have a normal life. Not when my big sister … is _you_. Here me out.” Dawn proceeds with caution. “For the first time in history, the amount of Slayers outnumber the amount of Watchers.”

Buffy is taken aback by the self-assured shift in her little sister’s voice.

“What’s your point?” she asks with impatient eyes.

“Well, we’re at a disadvantage. Slayers were awakened all over the world. Almost two thousand of them. And they’re all pretty much Watcher-less,” she tells her. “C-Can you just imagine if you didn’t have Giles when you were 15?”

“Not really. He did, of course, teach me how to read and write and always look both ways before crossing the street,” Buffy jokes, prompting an eye roll from Dawn.

“Buffy, I’m being serious,” she whines.

“Okay, okay. Yes. I would’ve been a wreck without Giles. Go on.”

“I want to be that for someone.”

“Huh?”

“I want to be a Watcher.”

Buffy can’t help her face from scrunching up from Dawn’s reveal.

“ _You want to be a what now?_ ”

“I thought I could learn from Robin, since he’s Head Watcher guy here,” Dawn points out as she rises from her chair and starts pacing. “Plus, Giles already started training Xander and Andrew. I figured he could just … add me to the list. Plus, there are officially _no_ female Watchers in existence and I think that’s unacceptable,” she circles back to Buffy and speaks earnestly. “I want in, Buffy.”

“Dawn, why would you want to be a Watcher?”

“Why not?” she says with a shrug.

“Okay, you _do_ realize that answer isn't gonna cut it, right?”

Dawn sighs and catches herself in the full-length mirror. Her cinnamon brown hair rests in a high pony-tail with a few sneaky wisps hanging down the back of her neck. Aside from a miniscule amount of cheap mascara on her eyelashes and some strawberry-scented chapstick on her lips, Dawn’s face is bare. She wears a pair of navy blue, skin-tight flare jeans and a casual, green top - an outfit she’s bound to change before weaseling her way into tonight’s outing. She’s 5 feet, 7 inches of pure angst - and _she knows it._

“I’m never gonna be a superhero, Buffy,” Dawn mutters without turning away from her reflection. “But I can’t be, like, some _dentist_ while my sister is off saving the world. This way, I can at least be helpful to you guys.” 

Buffy stands up at some point during Dawn’s little speech. Although she’d never say it to her face, she wonders if this is just one of Dawn’s stunts for attention or an endeavor she’ll get bored of and quit.

_I mean … a Watcher?_

“Dawn, being a Watcher … is not what you think. It’s a lot of … you know, _reading_. And … you know, _watching._ ” Buffy places her hands on her hips and struggles to find more reasons to steer Dawn away from this new career path. “I’m sorry, it just sounds so unbelievably boring. Like I feel like I’m actually _falling asleep_ just talking about i-”

Buffy realizes that Giles has stepped into the room at the exact wrong moment. Her eyes widen as she sees her well-dressed Watcher. “Oh, hi Giles.” 

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt,” he says snarkily. “Do finish that sentence.” Giles leans against the door frame with one hand in the pocket of his grey, pleated pants as he watches Buffy’s face turn a bright red color. She presses her lips together in an attempt to conceal nervous laughter. 

“Buffy was just saying how much she _loves_ the idea of me training with you and Robin,” Dawn steps in. 

Buffy whips her head around to her sister.

“Oh, so you two already had this discussion?” Buffy scoffs. “It’s nice to feel so included.” 

“You’ve been really busy since I got here. Almost _too_ busy,” Dawn says suggestively. Buffy’s brain is flooded with memories of Spike, which is exactly what Dawn wants; the nights she spent with him instead of checking in with her sister. Buffy feels a pang of guilt surge in her chest; she thought her days of neglecting Dawn because of her own drama were long over. 

_I guess not. Dammit, Buffy._

Wearing a pained smile, Buffy takes a step towards her sister. All her judgment over Dawn’s decision to become a Watcher washes away. She places her hands on Dawn’s forearms and shakes them softly. 

“Dawnie, if this is what you want … I support you.” 

“ _Really_?” 

“Really.”

Dawn casts a smile in Giles’ direction. Buffy can see it in her eyes - _she’s found her purpose._

_Or at least she thinks she has._

“Buffy, a word?” Giles questions after the dust has settled. Buffy gives him a thumbs-up before turning to face Dawn. 

“Dawn, we’ll continue this later?” 

The petite, dark-haired 18-year-old nods eagerly a couple of times before her sister leaves the room with Giles. 

“I understand you’re taking the girls out tonight,” he mentions on their way out.

“I think it would be more accurate to say they’re taking _me_ out,” Buffy replies in a huff. “Once Faith gets an idea in her head, she -”

“It’s a good idea. You’ve been doing good work, Buffy. You deserve a break.”

_What sixteen-year-old me would’ve done to hear those words from him._

“You okay, Giles? You didn’t happen to like, hit your head on the door and suffer major brain damage, right?” Buffy says with a furrowed brow. 

“Is it so appalling that I would advocate for you taking a night off from all this?”

Giles gestures to the lobby full of stone-faced Slayer soldiers speeding to their destinations. Undoubtedly, the room feels tense and absent of the carefree spirit Buffy tried desperately to hold on to.

“A little, yeah,” she finally says, following Giles into his temporary office. Her brain starts concocting worrisome scenarios that she can’t help but share. “W-What if we leave and this place is attacked, huh? It’s happened before. And then - _boom_ \- a whole lotta dead people that _I_ could’ve saved if I wasn’t doing the limbo in some sleazy nightclub with my former enemy.”

“Buffy, that’s very unlikely,” Giles reassures her, flicking the lightswitch on to a terribly uninteresting workroom. He slumps down in a desk chair across from Buffy, whose nerves tell her to remain standing. “From what Robin tells me, Cleveland has been quiet. Well … as quiet as a city on top of a Hellmouth can be.” Giles waves to a wooden chair on the other side of his desk in an attempt to persuade Buffy to sit down. She reluctantly listens. “Besides, not all the Slayers are leaving. There will be other fighters here. We’ll hold down the fort,” Giles concludes.

“But -”

“I think it’s time you give yourself a break. Socialize. Have fun.”

_"Socialize?” “Have fun?” He must be possessed._

“You’re not alone in this anymore,” Giles continues as he searches Buffy’s face for any clue as to what she might be thinking. “You know that, don’t you?”

Buffy can feel herself wanting to open up about her new high-stakes leadership role and subsequent isolation from the rest of the group - but she’s forgotten what even _that_ feels like. Confiding in Giles; running to him when things get bad or messy or confusing. She’s gotten pretty used to keeping it all inside. Although they refuse to talk about it, their relationship has suffered greatly over the past few years. From their disagreement about Spike ( _which seems to be ongoing_ ) to the unavoidable fact that Buffy no longer _needs_ a Watcher - they now behave like estranged relatives. Buffy doesn’t remember the exact moment their relationship was different; one day, it just was. 

“Yeah. I know that,” she lies, her voice soft but distant. To avoid Giles’ fatherly glare, Buffy looks down at her boots and, as a result, has second thoughts about her choice of footwear. Giles watches Buffy fidget with her shoes, readjust her jewelry, rub the back of her neck nervously and do _everything_ but tell him what she’s actually feeling behind those hardened eyes.

“Good,” Giles surrenders, his thumb lightly grazing his temple. As much as he wants to address the bizarre energy between them, he knows it’s not the time or place to get into it. Unfortunately, the time and place to talk was a long time ago - in Sunnydale. “Well, let me know if you need anything,” he says with a sting in his smile.

On her impassioned walk back to her chambers, Buffy opens up to Giles - _in her head._

_Being the Chosen One was hard._

_But being the Chosen One in charge of a bunch of other Chosen Ones is no joyride either._

_Giles, I’ve forgotten what it feels like to feel … comfortable. I’m afraid if I make a mistake, you’ll all turn on me again._

_I … wouldn’t be able to take it if that happened. Not now. Not ever._

_God, Giles. I can’t even sit in a chair without feeling tense. Like I’m gonna get a girl killed. Just by sitting in a chair._

_The only time I ever feel safe is when … he’s around. When he’s with us._

_When he’s next to me, making some snarky comment._

_That … can’t be good, right?_

_What do you think, Giles?_


	15. A Night on the Town

Hues of purple and blue swallow the crowd as Buffy follows her squad into Cleveland’s most hopping nightclub. Leading the group is Faith, who yells in her gravelly voice to be heard over the music. 

“Alright, kids. Divide and conquer,” she announces before following her own advice. The mob of Slayers obey and scatter every inch of the building with smiling faces. Buffy observes as the ear-shattering music calls some of them to the dance floor while others speed to the bar, leaving the blonde looking a bit disoriented beside Xander. He catches the lost look on her face.

“Why the furrowed brow, Buff?”

“It’s so easy for them to let go,” she answers, her eyes focused on a squad of Slayers succumbing to the night life. “Do you ever miss that?”

“Oh, I let myself go a long time ago,” Xander quips, patting his beer belly. Buffy follows his movement and rolls her eyes.

“You know what I mean, Xand.” 

“Nobody’s stopping you from letting loose. Except you,” he explains to Buffy, elbowing her side. “You can hang up your hero hat for _one night_ to have some fun.” 

“You’re not the first person to say that to me today. And you probably won’t be the last.”

“Was it Faith?”

Buffy gives a non-answer shrug, entirely distracted by the stimulation around her.

“Well, maybe she’s got a point. _For once._ God, do you think she heard that?” Xander looks around in terror, thinking she might be ready with her right hook.

“Okay. One night can’t hurt,” Buffy concludes, but the anxiety doesn’t disappear from her child-like eyes. “How ‘bout some frosty nectar for the grownups. Where’s Wil?”

With hesitation, Xander’s pointer finger directs her to a red-headed vixen in the middle of the dance floor. Buffy’s eyes go wide in response. 

“Willow?!” she exclaims with a slight head tilt. “She’s … wearing my pants.”

Dressed to the brim in black leather clothing, Willow dances between two modelesque women underneath an aggressively shiny disco ball. The concern on Xander’s face goes unnoticed by Buffy, who is too preoccupied with Willow’s outfit. 

“Well … that’s scary,” Buffy mutters.

“What? That Willow looks like she’s auditioning for _Batman Returns_?” 

“No. That she looks better in those pants than I do,” Buffy pouts, curling her jacket off her shoulders and letting it fall into her hands. She places it on a hook near the door and makes her way to the bar with Xander’s amused chuckle following behind.

Meanwhile, Willow ramps up her “Catwoman energy” when she notices Faith watching her from across the dancefloor. The witch doesn’t let her eyes linger long enough to decide if Faith is staring due to jealousy or if she’s just checking out someone behind her. 

_I’m gonna say it’s jealousy._

Willow takes it up a notch by brushing her lower back against the front of one of the dancers and drawing her fingers across the others’ side. From her peripheral vision, Willow can see Faith take a shot and place the empty glass on a nearby table before gliding towards her.

“Take a hike, ladies,” Faith says intimidatingly, prompting the girls to scatter. Willow fights the urge to scowl at the voluptuous brunette and give away the fact that she’s angry with her for blowing off their date earlier this morning. Instead, Willow continues dancing - _by herself_ \- looking entirely unphased by Faith’s presence. “Mind if I join?” Faith asks, then starts swaying her hips before Willow has a chance to answer.

“Whatever,” Willow says, aiming for indifference. She makes no effort to move towards Faith and her legendary hip rolls.

“I like the leather. You don’t pull it off as well as I do, but … it looks nice,” Faith speaks over the music.

_Backhanded compliments and no apology. What did I expect?_

“Glad to have your approval,” Willow yells bitingly. 

“You seem off tonight.”

“Do I?” she questions, mirroring Faith’s trademark aloofness.

“Did something happen today?” Faith moves in closer, sliding her hand down the small of Willow’s back, making her quiver involuntarily. 

“ _Did something happen today?_ ” Willow repeats. She can feel herself starting to lose her cool.

“Mhm.” Faith begins gyrating against the witch’s front side, as if to stop Willow from reprimanding her for something _she probably did._ The music stops at the exact right moment, leaving a gap of space for Willow to explode at her.

“Well, let’s see,” Willow begins, ceasing her movement, which results in Faith stopping hers as well. They are now two statues on the dance floor. “I woke up this morning with a plan. I was going to be all cool and unbothered and not at all clingy,” she says, referring to their night of unforgettable passion. “You were already gone. I’m a heavy sleeper. Maybe you tried to wake me up, whatever.”

The music starts up again. Faith sniggers and interjects. 

“Were you expecting breakfast in be-”

“Then I go about my day,” Willow raises her voice to stop Faith from interrupting, and to be heard over the music. “It feels easy. I’m not really dwelling on what happened. I think ‘maybe I can do this. Have some casual love-making and be … _not me_ about it.’ Then I see you and suddenly I’m on fire.”

Faith’s doe eyes smolder, her lips curling into that devilish smirk of hers.

“And in that moment, I want you. And you tell me you want me too. But it’s a lie,” Willow adds with a scoff. “You’re just a liar.” 

Faith’s wild grin fades back into a thin line. Willow is surprised with herself - at how bold she’s being. How _naked._ The words and the anger are just spilling out like never before.

“Rosenburg, what are you talking about?”

“I saw you today - all flirty with Angel. You said you were with Giles but I saw you.”

“Oh.”

“And I don’t want to crowd you. _I don’t._ But I just can’t wrap my head around why you would _tell me to meet you_ and then _deliberately blow me off_ \- for a _guy_. You could’ve just not said anything.”

Faith seizes Willow’s forearm and pulls her away from the thunderous music, where they settle in a dark corner.

“For a guy? What, you think I’m just using you to experiment?” Faith asks defensively, continuing the conversation.

“You say it like you’re above doing that to someone,” Willow says immediately.

“That’s cute. You think I’m some nymphomaniac but I’ve never been with a woman? And here I thought you were the smart one.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve been with women before,” Faith reveals to her. “Just not one like you.”

This new information shifts the energy between them; it’s warmer, but more confusing.

“One like _me_?”

“That thing you did last night? With the magic and shit? That was … insane. Why would I piss that away for Angel, whose first sexual experience was probably sometime during the dark ages?"

“Okay, wait. If you think I’m such a hot mama, then why did you ditch me for tall, dark and dead guy?” 

“Look. Angel was going through a thing. He needed me. The dude has saved my life an embarrassing amount of times and I owe him,” Faith replies sardonically. “We’re just buds, I swear.”

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say that, dummy?”

“I … honestly don’t know.” 

“You’re … a compulsive liar?” Willow tries sweetly.

“You know what, yeah. It’s probably that,” Faith admits with a groan. “Look, I’m working on the whole … ‘people thing.’ I’m sorry. Really.”

_Woah. She … apologized. Maybe Faith has actually changed. Maybe we all have. Maybe I should stop overthinking everything. Maybe I should stop starting every thought with ‘maybe.’_

“Oh, well … that’s okay,” Willow tells her with an attitude that says ‘I’ve forgiven you completely and I think you have the softest lips in the world.’ “Don’t worry about it.”

“So, are we good? Can we start over?” Faith asks seductively, her index and pointer finger crawling up the center of Willow’s chest. She exhales deeply and displays a playful grin to Faith, giving her the “ok” to kiss her - and she does. Faith presses her lips softly against Willow’s, but it feels different than last night. Realer, somehow. 

* * *

Back at the bar, Buffy sits on a leather stool beside Xander awaiting her adult beverage and a song that doesn’t make her want to put in earplugs. With every super-powered muscle in her body, she fights the urge to complain about the music being too loud.

_Once I do that, I’m officially an old person._

All of a sudden, the smell of age-old leather that’s been suffused with cigarettes and alcohol fills her lungs. Her skin warms to the realization that Spike has entered her presence.

“You came. Color me surprised,” Buffy utters without so much as an upward glance. 

“Couldn’t miss an opportunity to listen to mind-numbing, painfully dull music in a public setting,” Spike quips, resting an arm on the countertop. He mumbles an order to the bartender, who responds with a nod.

“Aaaaaand that’s my cue,” Xander says with major side-eye and a full glass of beer in his hand. He sips the foam off the top loudly before removing himself from the premises. The bartender places a martini next to Buffy’s hand and pops an olive into it.

“Thanks,” she mumbles to the bartender before refocusing her attention on Spike, who smirks at her choice of drink. “Judge me and get staked.” 

“Alcohol is alcohol, pet.”

Buffy takes a sip of her martini and does a quick scan of the room. Boisterous Slayers are letting loose all over the place - dancing, mingling, fencing with glow sticks - like she should be. But instead, Buffy stays in the dimly-lit bar next to some depressing regulars and her creature of the night. The bass rumbles against her heel, as if to remind her how much she’s missing out on.

“This is rubbish. How can people dance to this?” Spike complains with a disgruntled look on his face. “At least the Bronze had class.”

“Class? You only liked the Bronze because of that … onion … thing.”

“It had other perks.”

The tone of his voice makes a smile creep up on Buffy’s face before she can even register the meaning of his words. 

_The Bronze._

It was where they first met. Where she learned his history - _his disturbing, skin-crawling history_ . The room where he saved her from singing and dancing her way into a fiery death. The place where they had their first kiss. _Wait, no. Second kiss, technically. And third._

“Well. It’s at the bottom of a hole now,” Buffy finally says, shifting the intimate energy between them back to snarky-casual. Spike readjusts accordingly. 

“That it is, Slayer.” 

His ‘heart-eyes’ easily transfer from Buffy to the glass of brandy on the counter. Spike scoops it up in his hand and brings the cold cylinder to his lips while Buffy plays with the olive in her drink. 

The music changes drastically, causing them both to exchange bemused side glances. The electronic dance music is now a slow, magnetic tune that draws them in - but they don’t move a muscle. Buffy can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to dance with Spike. They’ve engaged in every bodily activity imaginable at one point or another - sex, sleeping together, even dying in the same vicinity as one another other - but they’ve never danced; it’s not exactly their style. _But neither were any of those other things a few years ago …_

Spike observes Buffy watching the couples on the dance floor adapt to the new music and start to slowly sway. He too, wonders what it’d be like to do that with her - waltz in a dingy nightclub surrounded by all her friends. 

_Can’t imagine they’d approve_ , he thinks to himself.

The very first memory he has of Buffy is of her dancing at The Bronze. Even back then, when his only thought was to kill the Slayer, he felt it; he was attracted to her. The way she moved. The way she _glowed_. The way she loved life, even though the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. Spike wishes he could see that same glow now. 

_Well … there’s no time like the horribly-awkward present to ask._

“Would you … like to dance?” 

Buffy’s wide eyes leave her martini glass and freeze on his steel-blue orbs. Spike studies her face profusely in the seconds that follow, her lack of an immediate answer sending electric shivers down his spine. If his heart could beat, it would be half-way across the room right now. 

“You know what, forget it. It’s stupid,” Spike adds on to his initial request, but Buffy’s hand is already on his. He meets her moss green eyes with complete surprise as she takes him onto the dancefloor, leaving behind their drinks barely-touched. 

The two of them don’t say a word on the journey there. They soundlessly settle on a less-populated area, free of familiar faces. Buffy steadily places one hand on Spike’s shoulder blade while the other rests within his icy palm. She watches his hand melt into hers and inhales sharply at the vision. Spike gently tucks his hand under Buffy’s arm and relaxes it against her mid back. It feels strange to both of them.

“Thanks,” Buffy says under her breath as they begin to sway. Spike looks down at her with a furrowed forehead.

“For what?”

“Coming back.”

“I didn’t really have a choice in the matter,” he sighs.

Buffy is reminded of a shady alley behind the Magic Box where she told Spike she was in Heaven - a conversation that, for whatever reason, she could only have with _him._

“At least we have that in common,” Buffy says with a faint shrug. “I don’t know if you recall, but … nobody asked me if _I_ wanted to return to the land of the living or stay heroically dead either. Bites, doesn’t it?” she teases him. 

“You got me there, love,” Spike chuckles, the bottom of his trenchcoat kissing her bare legs. “But if you ask me, the world is better off with you in it.”

Buffy looks up at Spike’s face and watches the lights dance in his eyes, startled by the heaviness building in her chest. As Spike moves in closer, she hides the deep red filling her cheeks by resting her jaw against his shoulder. Spike swallows hard and presses his lips together tightly to avoid a grin that may be considered too eager. 

Dawn - the 18-year-old who was somehow smuggled into the club by Faith - catches the two of them together at a distance. She sets her Shirley Temple with no ice on the table and watches them with a tilted gaze. Dawn looks puzzled - not because she didn’t know something was going on between them, but because of how … _normal_ they look. Xander interrupts her quiet moment of staring by setting his tankard glass of Guiness on the table next to her non-alcoholic beverage. 

“Who snuck you in?” he says with a narrowed eyebrow.

“Does it matter? I’m in,” Dawn replies without taking her eyes away from Spike and Buffy. “I’ll accept my grounding _after_ I’ve finished my drink.” 

Xander glances down at the pink drink on the table and looks less than pleased.

“They served you?!” 

He snatches her glass from the table and sniffs it suspiciously before taking a sip, Dawn sneering all the while.

“This is … a Shirley Temple.”

“With no ice, yup.”

Xander follows Dawn’s leering eyes to the harrowing pair on the dance floor and sighs deeply. The sight of a Slayer and a vampire - _especially those two_ \- will never _not_ make the hairs on his arm stick up. 

“Weird, huh?”

“The weirdest,” Dawn responds, her voice quivering with worry for her sister. “Do you approve?”

“If my friends want to involve themselves with psycho killers, there’s not much I can do besides make snippy remarks and hope something sticks,” he says, feeling a tad useless. “Was that too judgy?” Dawn removes her glare on Buffy and Spike to finally look at Xander.

“Did you say ‘friends’? As in plural? As in more than one?”

_Oh. Shit. Willow said to keep that on the DL, didn’t she?_

The highly-excitable Xander places a few fingers over his mouth instinctually before grabbing his beer. 

“What?” Xander laughs nervously. “No. No I did not,” he says more like a question.

“Yes, you did! Who are you talking about?” Dawn pesters him, craving the Scooby Gang’s juiciest secret yet. 

“I’m drunk. Don’t listen to me,” Xander pleads, but the bored teenager isn’t ready to give up. 

“You only have like three friends,” she says seemingly to herself as she tries to connect the dots in her head. “Buffy’s back on the Spike train. Andrew’s in a long-distance relationship with some guy in Rome … what’s his name? Romeo?”

“You can’t make this stuff up,” Xander chimes in, massaging his temple and praying to the Gods that he didn’t just blow Willow’s secret. 

“So that leaves … Willow,” Dawn concludes with squinted eyes, causing Xander to grit his teeth. “What? No way. Willow has sworn off dating since her breakup with Kennedy. You must be drunk.”

“That’s right. I’m schnockered. Smashed. Drunk-off-my-ass,” Xander fake-slurs his words in order to appear more intoxicated than he is. “We’re taking a cab home in ten minutes, so … be ready for that,” he sneaks in responsibly before gulping down some Guinness and staggering away. 

Dawn rolls her eyes and nods in agreement before returning her gaze to the dancefloor, where Buffy and Spike are nowhere to be found.


	16. Shall We?

In a secluded alley adjacent to the nightclub, Buffy and Spike are consumed by fog and the sound of their own heavy panting as they fight off a horde of vampires. A cluster of 20-something victims clutch their fresh neck-wounds and follow Buffy’s clear instructions (“run away - now”), leaving the world’s strangest crime-fighting duo to their task.

“Buffy!” Spike calls out while retrieving a poorly-carved stake from under his sleeve and tossing it into the abyss. The Slayer catches it with lightning-fast reflexes and tightens her grip around its rough, splintery edges before plunging it into her opponent’s heart. Emerging from the ashes that remain, Buffy quickly finds another eager, bumpy-foreheaded challenger.

“I always wanted to kill a Slayer,” the vampire hisses into Buffy’s face before throwing a fist in her direction.  
  
“And _I_ always wanted to win a lifetime achievement award.” Buffy glides underneath the demon’s punch and unites the stake with her target. “But I’ve learned that it pays to be practical,” she quips with a shrug as the vampire combusts before her. 

Buffy can’t deny how exhilarating it feels to fight some good old fashioned vampires with Spike. Her heart is racing, her cheeks are warm, her stomach is filled with all sorts of glittery feelings - but she wonders if it’s the Slaying that’s responsible … or _him._ Buffy rarely allows herself the privilege to think about what her feelings mean.

_Thinking leads to decision-making and decision-making by me usually ends in funny little disasters._

Swarmed by fanged-creatures and without a weapon, Spike finds himself backed against a brick wall with his _own_ game face on. He growls mightily and lunges forward with full force, knocking the demons to the ground like bowling pins. They struggle on the pavement for a few moments while Spike reaches into his pocket and pulls out his trusty lighter. He makes eye-contact with his opponents, whose cocky expressions soon vanish when they find themselves engulfed in flames.

“Playin’ a dangerous game here, Spike,” the British, blonde-haired vampire says under his breath, backing away from the fire until he’s at Buffy’s side. After the flames cease and the dust settles, Buffy waves the low-grade stake in her partner-in-crime’s face.

“Whoever whittled this is officially on my bad side. I have like, eight splinters in my hand,” Buffy whines with pursed lips as she attempts to pick them out one by one.

“I’d get ‘em out for you, but there’s the slightest chance I’d explode into ash if one of those splinters found its way to my heart. Which, knowing me, it probably would,” Spike mutters while looking down at her palm, remembering how it felt to hold it a few moments ago in the club. “Actually, nevermind. I’ll risk it,” he says without another ounce of thought.

Buffy snorts at Spike’s semi-flirtatious comment and plucks out the last miniscule shard of wood from her hand.

“All gone. But thanks for that,” she says genuinely. Spike gives her a slight nod and glances at the piles of dust on the ground where there used to be at least fifteen vampires.

“Not bad for just the two of us. And in record time,” he deduces, itching the edge of his brow. “How’d you know they were a fang gang?”

“Slayer 101: if you see a cult of weirdos wearing studded leather gloves, they’re probably evil,” Buffy informs him, making one last disgruntled face at the stake before chucking it across the alley. 

“Well, that was fun. We should pick fights with wannabe punk-rock vampires more often,” says Spike while swiping the ash off his hands.

“Aren’t you technically a wannabe, punk-rock …” Buffy finds Spike’s deeply insulted eyes and halts her speech. “Nevermind.”

Their witty banter is soon replaced by awkward quietude once they realize there’s no longer _any_ reason to be standing in the secluded alleyway - but nobody is moving. Spike presses his lips together and lets his eyes wander around while Buffy rocks back and forth on her heels with only one thought in her mind.

_Come on, Buffy. Move your last-summer, off-brand Prada boots out of this alley right now! I’m warning you!_

“So …” Spike finally says.

“So …” Buffy mimics, but adds a tiny laugh.

“Shall we?” Spike gestures to the nightclub - where a complete lack of privacy awaits them. “Slayer?”

Buffy starts to feel her throat constricting, her pulse rising, her skin on fire - because of what she’s about to do. 

Spike blinks a couple of times in response to her _lack of a response._ He notices the smallest change in her face and something deep inside of him remembers what it means, but he refuses to believe it. 

“Buffy …” 

Before he can get another word out, Buffy’s lips crash hard against his, sweeping him into a world where everything and nothing makes sense simultaneously. Spike waits a few long, tortuous seconds before reacting to her kiss, raising his arms to cup her face in his cold hands. Remembering that at least _one of them_ needs to breathe at some point, Buffy pulls away _just slightly_ \- but enough to immediately miss the sensation of his lips and fall back into them with vigor. In their long-awaited kiss, Buffy tastes everything she’s been suppressing for what feels like years and can no longer imagine a reality without it. 

A bundle of familiar voices behind them pierce their quiet passion and cause the pair to pull away. Buffy’s eyes find Xander, Dawn, Willow, Faith and the Slayer clan stumbling outside of the club in a fit of laughter. Xander searches around for Buffy, deliberating on the possibility that she went home without telling anyone.

 _It wouldn’t be … totally out-of-character for her_ , he thinks.

“Buffy?” Xander calls into the night. “Buff? You out here?” He turns to Willow and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Can you check the bathroom again?”

“I already checked three times, Xander.”

“Maybe she fell in,” Faith titters and teases, running a secret hand across Willow’s lower back. The red-head shivers in response and squirms away playfully, giving Faith a grin that says ‘just kidding. Please touch me again.’ Xander tries not to notice.

Before he goes into full-on “Dad Mode,” Buffy traipses out of the alley and presents herself to Xander and the others; she freezes under a street lamp and waves weakly.

“Right here,” the Slayer responds after wiping all evidence of Spike from her mouth, revealing a terribly guilty face. “I followed some vamps outside,” Buffy says moments before Spike appears over her shoulder. “ _We_ … followed some vamps outside.”

“I’m uh … taking Dawn home. The others are hitting some more bars,” Xander notifies Buffy, but doesn’t shift his disapproving glare from Spike’s face. 

“Sounds good,” Buffy replies without thinking. “Wait, what? Dawn! _What are you doing here_? Did I miss three birthdays of yours or something?”

“I … got lost on my way to … bible study?” Dawn answers unconvincingly, resulting in a death stare from her sister.

“We’ll talk about this later.” 

The Slayers, including Faith, gradually get bored of watching mothering-in-action and continue walking down the street. 

“God! I’m not a little kid anymore,” Dawn mumbles to herself as she stomps away with the others, Xander following behind.

“Technically, you’re four and a half,” he tells her, his voice getting lost in the distance. “And you know how that pesky law is about toddlers loitering in sleazy nightclubs.” 

Xander gives Dawn an elbow nudge but it only fuels her adolescent rage more.

“I wasn’t even drinking!"

“You coming, Buff?” Willow asks the discombobulated blonde. Buffy glances at Spike, who's being uncharacteristically silent. 

“Well, I-I was gonna ... I, um … well, I...” she responds incoherently, but Willow knows exactly what she’s trying to say.

“Gotcha,” she says through a smirk, leering at Spike’s nervous facial expression. “See you later.” 

Willow catches up to the rest of the group and disappears within it, leaving the Slayer and her vampire to their own devices. Spike curls around Buffy’s shoulder and stops a few feet in front of her. 

“So …” 

“So …” Buffy says on a big, awkward, not-ready-to-talk inhale. 

The corner of Spike’s lip curves into a tender smile. There was a time when he would’ve pestered her - _relentlessly_ \- until she explained what every romantic or sexual action of hers meant. 

But he’s not like that anymore.

“Shall we?” he repeats from earlier.

The two stand shoulder-to-shoulder and finally leave the alley behind, Buffy unable to make total sense of what just happened between them. 


	17. Sunnydale Sadness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to "Chosen."

May 20, 2003. 

“Yeah, Buffy? What _are_ we gonna do now?”

The question brings an unexpected warmth to the Slayer’s heart - because for the first time, there was no obvious answer. Nowhere Buffy _had_ to be, nothing she _had_ to do anymore. The corners of her lips rise into a tender smile as she looks off at the beautiful mess they made.

“Let’s ... just drive,” she whispers dazedly in a slow turn towards her family. Gripping her fresh abdominal wound, Buffy walks between the small crowd and feels a few arms around her back. It’s Xander and Willow, embracing her in a way they haven’t in what feels like years. When the group reaches the bus a second time, Buffy takes one last longing look at the quiet pit, bittersweet tears threatening to fill her eyes. It finally starts to sink in for the Scoobies that once they disappear, so will any and all traces of them. Through the bus window, Andrew watches Buffy through an overly dramatic lens.

“One would never know,” he begins in his oh-so-familiar storyteller voice. “This ragtag group of good guys spent six years making their mark on a town fated to be an unmarked grave.”

Andrew’s closing statement of the Scoobies’ Sunnydale Adventures goes unheard. 

“So, Buff - you want to sit _inside_ this time?” Xander’s distant voice interrupts Buffy’s sentimental moment.

“Hm, I don’t know. She looked pretty badass laying on the roof,” Willow jokes, playfully bumping her hip against Buffy’s good side.

“‘ _Laying_ ’? Try ‘holding on for dear life’,” says the blonde with an eye roll. 

Faith observes the squad’s innocent banter and finds herself feeling emptier than usual. After a triumphant win, she wishes she had a friend’s arms to run into. The social pariah eases a russet brown curl behind her ear before adding her voice to the mix.

“Uh, Robin’s not doing so hot. Does someone else wanna drive?” she asks with a pointed look at Willow and Xander, who somehow look more put together than Buffy.

“Not it!” 

“Not i - dammit,” Xander sighs, hoping he could’ve sat in the bus and quietly mourned Anya without having to pay attention to traffic signs. 

“I’ll drive,” Giles chimes in. 

“You sure?” Xander questions, remembering the last time he drove a vehicle while fleeing Sunnydale. “Because -”

“I am perfectly capable of operating a school bus, thank you,” Giles sasses him while readjusting the position of his glasses. 

One by one, the Scoobies climb onto the yellow school bus and are quickly reminded of how little Slayers remain - how little _people_ remain. Buffy’s mind is flooded with faces of friends left behind but she forces herself to keep moving. Soon to be joined by Willow and Xander, Kennedy and Vi frantically tend to their fellow Slayers’ injuries while Faith guides a mangled Robin to his new seat. Giles takes a spot at the helm of the ship, leaving behind a thick cloud of smoke as he pulls away from the bottomless trench without a moment’s hesitation. Buffy takes her place at the back of the vehicle, a place where she can cradle Dawn in her arms while watching their town disappear in the distance.

_Going._

_Going._

_Gone._

Hours pass before the pit resumes its rumble; its _groan_. As if it knew to wait until Buffy was clear out of sight before making a sound. Sunnydale’s cavity shakes once again, piercing through the walls below before coming to another abrupt stop. From its ashes emerges an enigmatic figure with horns sharp as knives. Its skin, translucent with notes of wine red and gold, flares up like fire - burning through roots trying to tie it to the earth. The small movements as it wakes are graceful; balletic - but filled with a temperament that could soon turn erratic if provoked. It raises its serpent, amber eyes to a sky it hasn’t seen in a millennium.

“Slayer,” the demon hisses before ascending from the pit in a blur. 


	18. My Guilty Conscience

The clock strikes 2:00 am back at the Cleveland Headquarters as a fraction of intoxicated Scoobies lounge around in Xander’s humble abode. Willow lays on his mattress with her nose in a laptop, googling the meaning of ‘five-by-five.’

“I swear she made this up,” she mumbles to herself while endlessly scrolling.

Andrew, who reluctantly bowed out of tonight’s gathering in order to help Giles plan tomorrow’s training session, sits on the floor with a bottle of rum trying to catch up with his peers. He wears none other than Spiderman footie pajamas - a choice that is yet to be mocked by his coworkers in the room. Meanwhile, Xander cracks open his fourth Miller High Life, plops himself down on the sofa and finally decides to say what’s been on his mind all night.

“Does anyone else think Buffy’s insane?” 

“I’m gonna need context,” Willow responds without taking her eyes off the laptop. She twirls an orange strand around her slim finger and finds herself craving cheetos.

“We all know what she was doing with Spike in that alley,” Xander says suggestively.

“Whoa, what? Spike and Buffy are back together? Aw. I always knew those crazy kids would work it out,” Andrew concludes in a drunk slur, only to be ignored by everyone in the room.

“C’mon. We made a pack that we weren’t gonna be all ... judgy with them anymore,” Willow reminds him in a dour voice.

“That was last year,” Xander defends. “We thought The First was gonna bury us.” 

“And that might have happened if _he_ didn’t inexplicably save the world with that fancy piece of jewelry.”

For a moment, Willow thinks she’s convinced him, as her old friend seemingly ponders her words; however, it doesn’t take long for Xander to revert back to his trademark cynicism.

“Uh huh. And this ‘Mother Theresa attitude’ towards our best friend’s questionable choices wouldn’t have _anything_ to do with yours lately?”

“Ixnay, Xander,” Willow reprimands while eyeing Andrew, who doesn’t yet know about her … _thing_ with Faith. She wants to be able to tell Buffy herself, which might be difficult if the world’s biggest gossiper knows her business. Andrew remains clueless as he takes another swig of rum and starts to quietly hum the _Doctor Who_ theme song. 

‘My bad,’ Xander mouths to her.

“Call me crazy … but it seems like you hate Spike a little extra lately - _if that’s even possible_. What’s going on in your lil noggin?” Willow pats the top of his head. 

Xander sets his beer down on the coffee table and rubs his eyes, preparing to have a heart-to-heart with his best friend; Andrew, meanwhile, seems distracted with turning himself into a burrito blanket. Noting the serious shift in the room, Willow closes her laptop and gives Xander her full, undivided attention.

“We’ve lost people. People we love,” he begins.

Xander stops himself from saying the names; he doesn’t need to. Ms. Calendar, Tara, Anya - their faces have lingered on the minds of the Scoobies, haunting their thoughts for years.

“We have,” Willow responds, matching the mournfulness in Xander’s voice.

“And Buffy’s the _only_ one who’s …”

He pauses suddenly, suddenly unable to make direct eye contact. Willow takes a deep breath once she realizes where Xander is going with this.

“She’s the only one who’s gotten her people … _back._ I mean, Angel and Spike, _who’ve murdered thousands by the way,_ are probably down the hall right now playing foosball and reminiscing about the good old days, when they could rip open someone’s throat without any consequences.” Xander sighs quietly and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Maybe I’m a little resentful. And a little … jealous. And maybe I feel like a horrible person for it and it’s easier to blame Captain Peroxide than my best friend.”

Willow attempts to muster up a comforting response to Xander’s semi-drunk confession but her thoughts are interrupted by a voice forgotten.

“Why are you blaming _anyone?_ ” Andrew mutters from the floor, revealing the fact that he was eavesdropping the whole time. Wrapped tightly in a blanket, he rolls over to face them with troubled eyes.

“What’s that, Bilbo Baggins?” asks Xander.

“Things just happen the way they happen. Duh. Not anyone’s fault, really. Life just sucks. Do you think Frodo deserved to have his life ruined by taking the ring to Mordor?”

Xander groans. “Here we go.”

“Or did Spock, Doctor ‘Leonard Gosh-darn Nimoy’ Spock, deserve to die from radiation poisoning while saving the Enterprise crew from the wrath of Khan (in the legendary film - _Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan_ )? _Did he?!_ Did Han deserve to be frozen in carbonite?! Did Luke deserve to be handless? Did Jonathon deserve to be killed by his … his _best friend?!_ ,” Andrew shouts as his voice breaks. “No … he didn’t ...”

The small blonde is now hugging a bottle of rum close to his chest as if it’s the man he just referenced. Willow and Xander exchange looks of concern.

“Bad things happen to good people,” Andrew continues quietly. “The rest of us … all we can do is try … _try_ to make up for the things we’ve done. The things we …” Andrew’s voice trails off into an incoherent mumble. 

“I don’t think Sauron is doing penance, buddy,” Xander chimes in with a cautious grin, slowly sliding the bottle away from his grasp. But deep down, he knows there’s some truth to Andrew Wells’ words of wisdom. 

A few rooms down, Angel and Illyria sit in solitude before reacting to a loud knock at the door. Faith stands on the other side with bags under her eyes in addition to some smeared black makeup that she didn’t bother to take off before going to bed.

It’s the middle of the night - when the world is quietest; when all Faith can hear are her own thoughts, all she can see is the blood on her hands and all she can feel is guilt because of the things she’s done. Illyria swings open the door like no human can and scans the Slayer’s face tirelessly.

“State your business,” the ethereal blue beauty demands. 

“I can’t sleep,” Faith says to Angel over the God’s shoulder. In her eyes, he can see all the faces of lives she’s taken; all the reasons she’ll never be able to sleep peacefully again. 

“Come in,” Angel says softly, taking Illyria’s place as the doorman. “If you recall, I’m not exactly a night sleeper.”

“I don’t sleep at all,” Illyria chimes in, suddenly wanting to feel included. “My body doesn’t require recharge.”

“Must be nice, princess,” Faith replies as she slumps down onto a chair. “You two seem to be getting along.”

Angel sits down across from her and resumes reading while Illyria finds her way back to the edge of the mattress.

“You just got here. Give it a second,” Angel grumbles into his book.

“Stop bein’ such a grump,” Faith urges him, nudging his knee with her combat boot. “I think she’s sweet.” Faith gives her a sly wink and Illyria doesn’t have the slightest idea how to react to it. 

“You haven’t witnessed her endless speechifying. Or the time she tried to take over the world,” Angel flashes Illyria cold eyes. “That one was a hoot.”

“Gah, we’ve all been there. Give the girl a break.”

Illyria hasn’t been around women much during her many lifetimes - not until a few days ago when she was thrust into ‘Slayer central.’ However, this is the closest she’s gotten to someone worshipping her in a long time and she doesn’t mind it, to say the least. 

“If this young woman whose face pleases the eye can accept me, why is it that you cannot?” Illyria asks earnestly. 

“I do accept you. You’re sitting here, wearing my friend's face, aren’t you?” Angel snaps.

“You need therapy, man,” Faith says under her breath, leaning forward in order to rest her elbows on her knees. “I mean, we all do but … remember what we talked about earlier? About letting go? Why don’t we give that a try right now, huh?” 

“Fine. I’m sorry, Illyria,” Angel says and almost means it. Faith looks pleased.

“That’s it, broodypants.”

The vampire catches a whiff of something foul out in the lobby and instinctually rises out of his chair. Illyria notices the scent as well but is much, _much_ less dramatic about it.

“Wait here,” he says mysteriously before storming out the door to investigate. Faith looks at Illyria and raises her eyebrows.

“He didn’t really think that was gonna work, right?” 

The two bombshells follow the cryptic man out of the room and find him standing next to a familiar face in the lobby. Angel’s keen senses lead him to Daniel Osbourne, the Scoobies’ one and only (former) werewolf member, with a duffle bag over his shoulder. Faith’s confident strut slows down into a mildly insecure walk when she realizes who it is.

_Willow’s long-lost, werewolf boyfriend. Yikes._

“Oz,” she says. “When’dja get in?”

“Pretty much now,” he responds, briefly looking at the large clock on the wall that says 2:43 a.m.. 

“State your business,” Illyria demands, gliding right into the small man’s face.

“Back down, Supergirl,” Faith tells her in the gentlest way possible. “This is Oz. He’s here to grab the wolf-boy we caught on patrol and motor it back to Tibet.”

Faith, who's been making an effort to not be unnecessarily unkind to people, wonders if she stepped over the line just now. 

_I wasn’t trying to … I just … don’t see why he has to stick around._

“I do not understand your references.” Illyria gradually loses interest and steps away accordingly.

“You can’t actually drive to Tibet from Cleveland. It’s an ocean thing,” Oz says warmly. 

“I’m sure Willow will want to see him,” Angel cooly replies. Faith tries not to be visibly upset.

“Right,” the Slayer starts, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t think we have any open rooms right now, but … why don’t you take mine? It’s not like I’m using it,” she huffs.

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t wanna be any trouble,” 

“You’re not. Take the room.” Faith goes into her jean pocket and pulls out a key that says the number ‘243’ on it, placing it in his hand. “It's right down the hall.

“Okay. Sweet,” he says, swinging the key ring around his finger. “Thanks, guys. I’ll um … I’ll see you in the morning.”

They watch the gentle beast disappear into room 243. On a deep inhale, Faith starts making her way back to what’s now a three-person room. Angel is in line to follow when he catches Illyria frozen in front of the large panel windows.

“There is an uncountable number of stars in this Universe. Not a soul knows how many. Not even me,” Illyria utters seemingly to herself, watching them glitter in the sky. “Why am I here?”

Angel lets out an exasperated sigh as he feels another speech coming on but this time, there’s an almost-smile on his face. 

“We’re really doing this again?”

“You want me gone.”

“I don’t. Actually.”

“Your eyes say otherwise.”

“Listen. I’m at a really _weird_ place in my immortal existence right now and having someone here from L.A. …” The image of Spike pops into his brain. “... who _isn’t_ in love with Buffy … is kinda nice.” 

Illyria whips around in a blur, now locking on his cold, brown eyes.

“You look at me and see nothing but the woman you lost. I look at you and I see the same,” she says plainly. “I see Wesley and Fred. The life they could’ve had. The things they never got to feel. I feel it all.”

Angel softens on Illyria, whose words are getting dangerously close to sounding like guilt. 

“You … do?”

“I must find my purpose in this world,” she changes the subject and speaks with a discernible need in her voice. “But I need your help, vampire.”

For the first time, Angel looks into Illyria’s distant, blue eyes and sees something other than Fred; he sees someone he might actually have the power to help. 


	19. Unbecoming

Buffy trudges through thick forest mud with a raised stake in her hand, the ghostly atmosphere making her feel right at home. The wind whistles past her ears and through the leaves, releasing them from their branches and giving them flight. Buffy carries on with her hunt, eventually finding herself at the edge of the woods; it’s bright beyond the forest trees. Blue skies, a blazing sun, the subtle sound of laughter calling her over - and a familiar figure in a long, black coat at the center of it all. 

She looks down at her bare feet, teasing the idea of stepping over and leaving the woods, but a series of sharp screams from behind pulls her back into the darkness. 

_Duty calls._

Without any hesitation at all, Buffy charges into the abyss again at full speed. The screams continue, and continue - but she is unable to find the source. 

_Where. Are. You._

As if her thoughts were heard, Buffy spots amber eyes lingering between the trees, announcing their presence with a heavy glow that burns through the soil - slow and sweet. 

The screams stop. 

She stares into those empty eyes, allowing them to distract her while the fire spreads to her toes. 

Buffy shudders at the sudden sensation of pain, but more-so at the hand on her arm. It soothes everything. 

The Slayer whips around to find the opposite of what she was expecting.

“Spike?”

“It doesn’t stop. It never stops.”

_Could he be more vague?_

“What … doesn’t stop?”

“Do you think I chose to be like this?”

“Spike, what are you-”

“Do you have any idea how lonely it is? How dangerous?”

“ _What are you saying?_ ”

“Wake up,” Spike whispers against the back of her head. 

“Huh?”

“Wake up!” His soothing British vernacular suddenly morphs into the screeching demand of an adolescent teenager. “Buffy, wake up!”

The Slayer spasms a few times in her sleep before jumping up to find Dawn’s bulging blue eyes hovering above her. 

“What the - _Dawn!_ _Why?”_

“Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, sis, but I’ve been listening to you make deranged noises for the past hour. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t possessed or whatever.”

Buffy rolls her eyes (at Dawn and herself) and snatches the alarm clock on her nightstand, practically putting it on her face in order to read what it says.

“5:00 am. Lovely.”

“What were you dreaming out?” Dawn inquires, sitting herself down on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, you know. Murder. Mayhem. The usual.”

“Should we rally the troops?”

“Not yet,” Buffy replies, her voice now distant. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

_I’m sure it’s nothing._

Her thoughts sound less sure.

Buffy flips the covers off her body, exposing a white tank and penguin-patterned pajama shorts that are most definitely Dawn’s.

“ _Hey,_ those are-”

“Remember that time I saved your life every week for the past four years?”

Dawn rolls her eyes and makes way for the door, grumbling, “Fine.”

_Ha._

_I win._

Pulling her scraggly, blonde locks into a messy bun, Buffy freezes in front of the mirror. She looks around to make sure she’s alone before touching her lips. The sensation of Spike’s kiss remains, reminding her of last night’s wildly impulsive-on-her-part encounter outside of the club. They have yet to discuss what happened, if they ever do. For now, Buffy enjoys living in the world of not-dealing, completely content with staying in her room until one of them forgets. 

_Mhm. Sounds reasonable._


	20. Blast From The Past

On her way to teach another Witchcraft History course, Willow turns the corner and much to her surprise, finds the face of her past staring back at her. The witch’s emerald eyes fill with disbelief; she walks into the warm embrace of Oz before she can register what’s happening. 

“Oz,” she says with a smile, comforted by his nostalgic scent that takes her right back to the halls of Sunnydale High. “Hey.”

“Hey, Will,” Oz replies in a soft tone. “It’s good to see you.”

Oz stands before her wearing a linen, partially-unbuttoned-at-the-top shirt over tan slacks. His wrists are wrapped in Tibetan stone bracelets that accentuate his familiar black nails, along with a lengthy, beaded necklace that hangs down his torso. Today, his hair looks like pale fire but Willow knows that tomorrow it may be an entirely new shade with no explanation.

“Likewise. How long has it been?” 

“Uh, a few apocalypses at least,” Oz presumes, initiating a stroll down the hallway together. Willow shoves a hand into her jacket - which is actually _Faith’s jacket_ \- and sips at her herbal tea to fill the routine silence that comes shortly after bumping into your ex. When Oz returns with more quiet sweetness, Willow bites the bullet.

“So, you’re like … helping other wolves and stuff?”

“And you’re helping other Slayers and stuff,” Oz says in a familiar monotonous voice. “Adulthood.” He shrugs.

“Right,” Willow says through an awkward smile.

“You guys are causing quite the ripple, I hear,” says Oz in reference to the Slayer Organization.

“It’s not the kind of ripple that makes us very popular, I imagine.”

“Nobody likes an overachiever.”

“Learned that in high school, I’m afraid,” Willow responds with an unrelaxed chuckle.

As they walk side-by-side towards the lobby, Willow and Oz experience another gap of silence. She fidgets with her hair and wonders if he thinks she looks different, not that it matters. 

“So, you and Faith, huh?” Oz asks nonchalantly. “It’s an odd combination. I like it.”

Willow stops abruptly and gapes at her ex-boyfriend with shock in her eyes. Oz offers an explanation before she has a chance to ask.

“Her scent. Your scent. It’s a scent thing,” he responds cooly. “I’m happy for you.”

“Oh, yeah, duh. Werewolf,” says Willow looking down at her hands. “Um, if you could just … not tell Buffy? She doesn’t know anything. Yet. I mean, I don’t even know what we are and … just don’t say anything to her, okay?”

“That was actually my next move. I was gonna rent a blimp. Tell the whole world,” he says sarcastically but without any bite in it. It still amazes her how a person this gentle could turn into a ravenous beast on a monthly basis. 

“Thanks,” she responds, resuming their walk into the lobby. Willow pokes her hand back into Faith’s jean jacket. “So … what’s new with you?”

“I wear lots of bracelets now.”

“I can see that.”

“And the exciting world of witchcraft? How goes that?”

“It goes good. I-I mean sometimes I sort of lose myself. It doesn’t happen a lot. I-It’s a toss-up, really. Sometimes I go all Wicked Witch of the West, sometimes I go Glinda the Good witch. But I’m getting a handle on it,” Willow says unconvincingly. Oz maintains his soft smile at her, completely devoid of cynicism or judgement. 

It’s a struggle he understands all too well. The temptation to give in to the wolf was strong after he left Willow for good. Herbs, chants and meditation weren’t enough to keep Oz’s dark side dormant and allow him to be _him_ again.

“I learned some cool stuff in Tibet about control. The old methods of Bon?” he asks but already knows Willow is familiar with it - because _of course_ she would be.

“Oh, yeah?” 

“I learned … to see spiritual life in all things. Everything is connected. The secret was not to bottle the wolf _or_ let the wolf rule me … but to let its essence through me and into nature, to live like a river. I saw the world with new eyes - like I was a part of it. Do you … understand what I’m saying?”

Strangely, she does. 

“I-I think I do. Does that make me a hippy too?”

The two former high school sweethearts laugh quietly as they reach the main entrance.

“When are you planning on heading out?”

“Pretty much now.”

“Oh,” she murmurs.

“I’m glad I caught you,” he says sweetly while making eye contact with his new werewolf recruit, Alex, sitting across the room with a suitcase. The terrified young adult runs a hand through his tight, black curls and hustles over to Oz. Before Willow can get her goodbye in, Andrew speeds through the large corridor yelling incoherently. 

“Hey! Hey, wait!” he exclaims before stopping in front of the main entrance where Alex stands, pulling him into an affectionate hug. “There you are! Ugh, I thought you left already,” he mutters out of breath over the newbie wolf’s shoulder. 

With a curious eye, Willow watches the borderline PDA unfold in front of her and analyzes it. 

“You’re … _friends?_ ” 

Andrew shoots her a look that says _“is that so hard to believe?”_

“Who doya think was keeping him company in his cell every night?” he replies over Alex’s muscular shoulder, finding his chin locked against it. “I uh … I read him stories … brought him fresh clothes … ooo! I even taught him a bunch of Elvish words.” 

“Sounds … nice.”

Willow has to remind herself that she doesn’t normally pay attention to Andrew. All she’s bothered to learn about him is … 

_He was kinda evil once._

_And he’s Tucker’s brother._

“It wasn’t as bad as he’s making it seem,” Alex quips to Willow. “I mean, I could’ve done without the head pats.”

Alex returns Andrew’s hug and slips a small scrap of paper into his pocket, resulting in raised eyebrows from Willow. 

“Boe i 'waen. Call me if you’re ever in Tibet,” Alex says with a look in his eyes that Willow swears makes Andrew jump out of his skin. A deep red colors his cheeks before nodding quickly. 

“S-Sure thing, dude. I’ll give you a call,” he stumbles, still reeling from the edgy smirk on Alex’s face. “G-Galu.”

_For once, I need Xander to translate something for me._

“And if you guys ever need anything, just know you have some werewolf friends across the world,” Oz tells them. Willow sends him off by pulling him into another warm hug while Andrew stands fidgeting with his hands nervously.

“See ya,” she says with a gentle half-smile. 

“Bye,” both Oz and Alex respond simultaneously before leaving the premises. Andrew waits a few seconds until they're gone to explode.

“You saw that? You _saw_ that, right?”

_The bedroom eyes? The not-at-all-subtle phone number exchange? Well, Andrew didn’t really give him anything back. U-Unless I missed something. They were hugging for a long time ..._

“I had a front row seat and everything.”

“Gosh, what do you think it means?” 

“That … he wants you to call him if you’re ever in Tibet.”

“Maybe I should buy a plane ticket,” Andrew wonders outloud.

For the first time ever, Willow genuinely laughs at something Andrew says. She places a hand on his shoulder and, as a result, his nerves settle.

“He wasn’t the first guy and he certainly won’t be the last,” she reassures him, offering a friendly grin before walking back to her room. Andrew fiddles with the piece of paper in his pocket and watches her walk away with a similar smile on his face.


	21. Ready or Not

After sundown, Buffy finds herself pacing back and forth in the kitchen with a candy bar wedged between her teeth. Chocolate has proven to be an effective coping mechanism for Buffy in the past, but one bite in, she realizes it’s expired. 

_Can’t even get a decent Snickers in this place._

Buffy makes a face before tossing the candy into the garbage across the room - with _spite_. Her hands are now tangled in her hair, elbows resting against the blue tile countertops. She wishes she followed her instinct to stay in her room all day, safe within the confines of her shabby walls. It’s not like she has an apocalypse to stop or a training session to lead.

But as Buffy’s thoughts continue to flow a thousand times faster than usual, she remembers why she ventured out into the kitchen to begin with; she’s much too restless to be cooped up any longer. She needs action, she needs contact, she needs chocolate that isn’t _expired._

But most of all, she needs to talk to someone about Spike - and that’s the least likely thing to happen on her list. The thought of finding Willow or Xander had occurred to her a couple times throughout the day, but she rejected it every time.

_They wouldn’t understand._

In their Sunnydale years, Buffy’s friends made their disapproval regarding Spike abundantly clear and she doubts his sacrifice changed anything.

But it changed _everything_ for her. 

It was the moment Buffy admitted three words Spike would then contest but thank her for, thus making their departure even harder. With the Hellmouth turning to ash and dust around them, she didn’t have time to convince him otherwise. But even if she did, would she have bothered? Did she mean what she told him when their hands joined together and birthed flames, sending the world into chaos?

“Buffy?” 

The Slayer’s eyes go wide in response to a voice outside her head. She stumbles into the fridge and tries to play it off like it was on purpose.

_So much for heightened senses._

“Wha-huh? Fine, I’m fine,” she splutters in Giles’ face. He takes a few steps back with his boiling cup of tea.

“I didn’t mean to startle you-” 

“You didn’t,” she lies. “What’s up?”

Giles stirs the tea bag into his drink, filling the small space between them with its citrusy aroma. 

“I just wanted to inform you that Illyria has agreed to a sparring session with you.”

“A sparring session?”

“Yes.”

“With Illyria?”

“Yes.”

“Explainy,” Buffy says fearfully.

“It seems Spike and Wesley were studying the extent of her powers in L.A. but didn’t get a chance to finish. The more we can understand her power, the better. Would you be up for it?” Giles takes a small sip of his tea, rests a hand in the pocket of his brown, pleated dress pants and looks to Buffy for the answer.

“When?”

“She’s available right now, I believe.”

“Hm. Spend the night getting my ass kicked by an omnipotent female God with a perfect, Julia Roberts waist? Goody.” Buffy’s voice rages with sarcasm. “What room is she in?”

Buffy is already making way for the exit when Giles’ words stop her dead in her tracks.

“122. Angel and Spike are in there as well. With clipboards.” 

_Yup. Definitely should’ve stayed in my room. With the door locked._

“Great,” Buffy seethes with a scowl at the door. She manages to flash Giles a wary smile before stepping through it and commencing an unsure walk down the hall. 

The closer Buffy gets to her destination, the more concern she has for the state of her hair. She quickly finds the nearest window reflection to make sure her long locks look presentable. They don’t.

 _Really, Buffy? Ever heard of a brush?_

She takes in a long, sharp breath and does her best to comb out the neglected mess that is her hair. By the time she’s finished, five minutes have passed and she’s sprinting down the hall into a situation she didn’t prepare for. 

_Angel and Spike. And a God._

Buffy can hear the vampires’ bickering voices through the wall and she’s ready to jump out of her skin. 

_It’s “high school and I just passed a boy a note that says ‘do you like me - yes or no?’” level nervous._

Buffy unties the jacket around her waist, slides an arm through the purple sleeve, then the other, and zips it up halfway. After a few moments, Buffy realizes it’s entirely too hot in here for layers. The Slayer sighs and plays with the idea of wearing the jacket as a scarf, decides she can’t pull it off and then settles on binding it to her waist again.

Spike and Angel’s conflict within the room falls silent.

_It’s not too late to go back to your room. Tell Giles you got sick … in the last ... five minutes. He might buy that?_

Her hand is on the knob and she waits a few long seconds before turning it. Someone on the other side has the same idea. 

_Too late._

The door swings open and the first eyes she finds are Spike’s, then Angel’s, then Illyria’s, then Spike’s again. She tries not to let her discomfort show but it’s impossible after last night.

Buffy’s eyes linger on him long enough to realize he’s not wearing his typical ensemble. Instead of a black t-shirt and leather coat, Spike sports a flannel that Buffy can’t help but notice brings out the annoyingly gorgeous blue in his eyes. 

“Hey,” is all she can muster. 

Spike’s shoulders tensely rise and fall at the sight of Buffy - bare-faced with tresses of chaotic hair cascading down her back, looking more radiant than ever.

“Welcome, welcome,” Spike says against a deep breath. “We’re just getting started. You can, uh … check out the room. Make sure it’s to your liking.”

“Great,” is all that comes out of her mouth. 

_It’s weird. He’s weird. We’re being weird._

Buffy blinks a couple of times before stepping inside, accidentally brushing against Spike’s side while doing so. They both pretend not to notice the wild effect it has on them.

She takes in the room. It has everything they might need for their session - rolled out mats, a variety of weapons and most importantly, a first-aid kit. 

_Mhm. I’ll be needing that._

Buffy glances at Illyria, a motionless figure at Angel’s side. The God responds to her stare with an extreme head tilt, making the hairs on Buffy’s arm shoot up. Uncomfortable, Buffy’s gaze travels back to Spike, whose eyes float up to the ceiling, to his clipboard, to anything but her. 

_Come on, Buffy. Fake a leg cramp or something. Get out of here._

Angel tries to focus on anything else but the awkward tension in the room. He doesn’t want to know the cause of it. But at the same time, he can’t help himself.

“Have fun last night?” he asks Buffy, rocking on his heels. Needless to say, the question catches her off guard.

“Last night?” she pretends to think for a moment. “Oh, the Slayer outing? Yeah. Buckets of fun.” Buffy absentmindedly picks up a broadsword and tries to balance it on her palm. 

“Anything interesting happen? Faith’s description was pretty dull.”

“Faith?”

“Yeah,” he answers while scribbling _something_ down on his clipboard. “She came by afterwards.”

“And interrupted our ritual of staring at the wall in silence,” Illyria drawls. Angel looks pleasantly surprised - _did she just make a joke? That’s … new._

“Oh,” Buffy says in a higher pitch than she intended. His relationship with Faith still stings.

“So?” says Angel.

“So?” Buffy repeats before realizing she hasn’t answered his earlier question. “Oh, right. Anything interesting … um …” Buffy traces the sword’s edges with her fingers, trying to remember _anything_ that happened last night besides her kiss with Spike. 

“Had a run-in with some vamps. Broody little things. You would’ve loved them,” Spike cuts in.

It is then that Angel has his answer. He wanted to know if they were both there. 

Buffy takes no notice of Angel’s change in demeanor - or at least she tries to. The bizarre energy circulating the room doesn’t belong to just her and Spike.

Although they have no interest in examining it, Buffy and Angel’s relationship functioned better when he popped in and out, offered support, a deus ex machina and maybe a kiss before inevitably returning to his life in Los Angeles. It was simple and they needed simple after everything they went through together. 

But since joining forces, sharing the same building and having Spike around 24/7, their dynamic has changed. Buffy and Angel stay at a distance and for good reason; they don’t want to address the fact that while they’ll always love each other, they no longer make sense.

“Should we get started?” Buffy changes the subject, hanging her weapon back on the wall.

Illyria, who’s grown bored of the hormonal teenagers and their small-talk, glides right up to Buffy. This time the Slayer stands her ground and doesn’t break eye contact.

“I am told you are a great warrior,” she purrs while circling Buffy. “I look forward to investigating that fact for myself.”

_I’m going to be hospitalized after this. Thanks, Giles._

Buffy gives an uncertain nod and falls into her fighting stance. Her feet are roughly shoulder width apart; one fist is lowered and the other raised. Her head is slightly bowed, looking forward into the hypnotic eyes of her opponent. It feels like a lot of effort to Buffy, while Illyria hasn’t moved a muscle.

“Let’s see whatcha got, Gwen Stefani,” she quips, resulting in an utterly perplexed reaction from Illyria. Buffy feels the need to explain (and hopefully use said explanation as a distraction).

“Oh, you know? Gwen Stefani?” Buffy asks, trying to sneak in a few punches at Illyria. She dodges every single time. “She had this like, sweet blue hair look at the 1998 MTV music awards.”

Illyria hears too many words in one sentence that she doesn’t understand.

“Get it?” 

Nothing.

“Because you have blue hair.”

Having yet to make any physical contact with Illyria, Buffy bravely glances at Angel and Spike. “Surely, she knows who Gwen Stefani is?”

“Who?” they respond simultaneously. Illyria swings her arm and knocks Buffy to the ground with the effort of a feather. She hovers over her, a dastardly smirk on her face. 

“I suppose there is power in a lack of knowledge.”

“Have you _met_ Harmony?” Buffy jokes from the floor, quickly reaching for a weapon. She locks her fingers around a bladed staff that someone tosses to her, letting it help her rise to the God’s level.

“You talk much while you fight.”

Buffy attempts a rapid thrust in Illyria’s direction, who then grabs hold of the staff's center before it reaches her stomach. 

_"And?”_

Buffy yanks the weapon back with everything she has and uses it to push off the ground, lunge kicking her in the jaw. It barely phases her.

“Do you expect to best me by exercising your mouth more than your fist?”

“No, I expect to best you by besting you,” Buffy answers with a side kick, which somehow knocks Illyria back a few steps. With a newfound confidence, the Slayer slashes at her with the staff’s curved blade, but misses. “I just happen to be a great conversationalist.”

Standing as straight as an arrow, Illyria sends Buffy’s weapon to the floor with a thrust of her foot. She swings her arm to strike Buffy, who ducks underneath but doesn’t anticipate a blow with Illyria’s other hand. It was _too_ quick. Before Buffy has a chance to process what’s happening, she feels the throbbing sensation of cold bricks against her back. Illyria threw her across the room. 

_That's cool. I'll just add 'bleed internally' to my list of things to do tonight._

Buffy’s abilities don’t exactly obey the laws of physics either, but Illyria’s are beyond human, beyond creature, beyond _anything._

She bares the same taunting, holier-than-thou smile the Slayer is growing to hate as Illyria stalks towards her. 

Now fuming with an intense desire to win this fight, Buffy springs off the mat. She’s much too distracted by her own rage to notice the defensive look on Spike’s face. Buffy races towards Illyria at full force, thinking and hoping and praying it might catch her off guard. Illyria crouches down and slides a leg against Buffy’s ankles, knocking her to the ground a second time. Buffy lets out a frustrated groan.

“Hope you’re getting all this down,” she says with an eye roll at Spike and Angel and their useless clipboards.


	22. Waiting for You

Willow follows the scent of cigarette smoke into the courtyard, hoping that the “pungent aroma of imminent death” (a term coined by the young witch) belongs to Faith. She hates to admit the smell is actually growing on her.

Within moments, she finds the Slayer lounging on a picnic table underneath the stars, her legs sprawled out and dangling over the edge. Willow smiles to herself before making her presence known with a few mousy steps towards her. Faith turns her head just enough to see who it is, and wedged between her teeth is a cigarette and a wicked grin reserved just for her. 

“Hey, Red.”

“Hey,” Willow replies while her fingers fidget nervously. Faith’s gaze remains focused on the sky full of stars, but she moves to make a spot for her visitor. 

“In all your years as a witch, have you ever flown your broomstick up there?”

Willow lets out an abrupt chuckle before sliding onto the table’s surface beside Faith, where she settles down cross-legged.

“Your knowledge of witches may not be 100% accurate.”

“So, is that a no?” Faith takes another puff of her cigarette. 

“No, I’ve never flown a broomstick into space.”

“Bummer. It’d be a hell of a sexperience,” Faith drawls flirtily before sending a wink in Willow’s direction. She responds by gently nibbling on her lip and swinging one leg over the edge of the table in a fit of nerves.

“What are ya doin’ out here?” 

“Needed a break from all that noise,” Faith replies with a disgruntled glance at their building.

“You mean the sound of Buffy getting her ass kicked by Fred 2.0?”

“Nah, Giles is doing another late-night Watcher seminar before we leave,” Faith clarifies, causing Willow to redirect her gaze to the ground.

“Ah.”

“It’s a total snoozefest and I can hear him bumbling into the mic no matter what room I’m in. Hence, the wilderness,” she concludes with a gesture around them.

The mention of Scotland steals any playful reaction Willow might have had. She can't help the waves of disappointment that come the moment she remembers Faith is leaving, and they won’t get a chance to explore their relationship. Ever since Willow successfully turned thousands of girls all over the world into Slayers, her power stopped being her own. The witch’s duty to others means sacrificing any potential of normalcy, and for the first time, she understands what it’s like to be The Slayer. To be Buffy.

“Are you gonna be okay hanging back here for a while?” Faith asks, pulling Willow out of her own head.

“Who, me? I’ll be fine," she answers but her face says otherwise. "Better than fine. _Dandy_."

“The Senior Partners are bad news, Will.” Faith shakes her head as if even saying their title makes her uncomfortable. “If they come back for round 2, Angel’s gonna need you and those sweet magic superpowers closeby,” she adds with an affectionate elbow nudge. 

“I saved his soul a bunch, isn’t that enough?” says Willow jokingly but is disturbed by how sincere it comes out. She takes a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure Angel's brooding aura isn’t lurking nearby. “I’m kidding. That was a kid.”

She hugs a knee to her chest timidly as Faith watches from the corner of her eye.

“Speaking of modest monsters … where’s Oz?” she questions, aiming for casual but landing somewhere close to jealousy. 

“Left this morning.”

“That was fast,” Faith answers and tries not to show any signs of excitement. Willow raises an eyebrow.

“Were you expecting him to stick around?” 

Faith shrugs her shoulders. “When I first blew in to Sunnydale, you two were pretty much inseparable. Figured you’d wait a bit before sending him off, that’s all.”

“When you first blew in to Sunnydale, I wore tights with tennies. People change,” Willow replies while drawing shapes into the table with her pointer finger. 

“Why _did_ you trade in your fuzzy sweaters and overalls for big girl clothes?” Faith teases, tugging the edges of Willow’s brown leather jacket toward her until their lips are inches apart.

“I … outgrew them,” Willow says with a quiver in her voice as she beams down at Faith’s all-too kissable mouth. “Like ya do …”

“That’s too bad. I sort of liked your ‘sugar, spice and everything nice’ approach to fashion. It was cute.”

Willow blinks a few times, a little too flattered by Faith’s comment.

“You thought so?”

“Sure,” she answers with narrowed eyebrows, mimicking the sense of surprise in Willow. She gently releases her grip on her jacket to stub out the cigarette. “Why are you making that face?”

“I don’t know, I just …” Willow begins cautiously, the question thrusting her into nervous stammering. “I-I always thought … well, I thought you thought I was dorky.”

“Oh, I do,” Faith admits and subsequently turns Willow’s pleased smile into a dispirited frown. She laughs. “Dorky isn’t necessarily a bad thing, Will. At least you’re about something.”

“You really know how to charm a girl.” Arms folded over her huffing chest, Willow’s scowl forces another snicker out of Faith’s mouth.

“Oh, come on. That’s not even one of my meanest insults.”

“What? You think you’re so cool because you wear leather pants and smoke drugs?”

“‘Smoke drugs’?”

“Did I say that wrong?”

“No, it was perfect,” Faith's laughter slowly fades when she notices the way Willow is looking at her.

With a bit of hesitance, Willow sweetly presses her lips into the corner of Faith’s mouth. The Slayer slowly loosens her grip on the cigarette and leans into the kiss, but some twisted voice inside her head tells her to pull away.

“Why do you like me, Will?”

The question sends Willow into a state of confusion. It wasn’t where she thought this kiss was going, and before she can muster a response, Faith asks another question.

“After everything I’ve done … to you, to your friends, to _humanity._ How can you look at me like that?”

“Like what?” Willow asks and watches Faith’s gaze start to fall.

“Like I matter.”

Something in the air snaps and Willow isn’t quite sure how to repair it at first. She’s never seen such a crack in Faith’s seemingly impenetrable armor. After a few moments, Willow presses a finger under the Slayer’s chin and lifts her gaze, until teary brown eyes are facing her own.

“If you think you’re the only one with blood on your hands, you’re wrong,” Willow soothes, while trying to ignore the faintest sounds of screams and tearing flesh that suddenly run through her mind. “Look at any one of us long enough - Xander, Buffy, Giles, even Andrew - and you’ll see the cracks. The faces that haunt us, the mistakes that keep us up at night,” she pauses and swallows the rock in her throat. “I have to believe in a world where penance is possible. I have to. Because when I look at you, I see so much more than your worst days.” 

Having this conversation feels surreal, to both of them. Faith manages a thin smile before burying her face into the crook of Willow’s neck and whispering, “Is this a bad time to invite you back to my room?”


	23. Damaged

An hour passes in the training room but for Buffy, it feels like an eternity. Illyria’s unmatchable strength and reflexes land the Slayer on her bruised and battered back at every turn. 

“You fight well for a human,” Illyria admits with an unearthly smile. “But I remain unimpressed.”

“Thanks for the review, but we’re here to evaluate _your_ abilities, not mine,” an out-of-breath Buffy manages to get in before chugging down some water. Meanwhile, her demon comrades find themselves engaged in more pressing matters.

“W,” Angel mutters. His twitching features morph into a scowl as he watches Spike scribble something down on his clipboard.

“Bad luck, beefcake,” Spike snickers, deeply satisfied by the win. “Give up yet?”

“B,” Angel says bitingly, his hands rounding into fists. Spike lets him stew in anticipation before giving his hangman a pair of fangs.

“This is sad, truly,” he mocks Angel and succeeds in making him growl.

“Fine, just tell me what it says.”

Spike suppresses a laugh and obeys by filling in each letter while Angel vocally follows along. 

“Angel … has … a …. tiny ...” he reads in a monotone before deciding not to finish the sentence. “You’re a child,” Angel grouches, snatching away his clipboard with all the fury he can muster. Spike’s high-pitched tittering follows soon after.

“What? Was it something I said?” he jeers. 

Trying (and failing) not to get whiplash from the ever-changing climate of their relationship, Buffy sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, unaware that Illyria has been watching her watch them.

“I enjoy the effect they have on you.”

“And what effect would that be?” Buffy immediately regrets asking and hopes the vampires in the room have miraculously lost their super-hearing abilities.

“Bats in your stomach. Drums in your chest. Warmth in your cheeks.” Illyria’s voice drops an octave. “Sometimes all at once.”

It is then that Buffy decides to attempt something much scarier than sparring with Illyria.

_Girl talk with a God …_

“Does anything ... make _you_ feel that way?” she questions, hugging the water bottle close to her chest. Illyria crinkles her nose at Buffy’s question and for a split second, she thinks the demon looks almost … _human_.

“Only when I let her in,” Illyria replies, finally. “Fred.”

Angel and Spike’s ears perk up at the mention of their dearly beloved friend, while Buffy remains out of the loop on why her name conjured such grief.

“The woman who first possessed this shell. This _body,_ ” Illyria corrects herself, prompting the feuding vampires to exchange sudden looks of sorrow. “Her memories, her desire to understand the world - live on through me,” she drones. “Sometimes I let them.” 

Buffy bares the semblance of a frown as the energy in the room shifts from awkward to miserable. Her instinct is to fix it.

“So, it’s a Jekyll and Hyde situation?” Buffy asks and watches Illyria reject another one of her references. “Sounds like a Willow fix. Maybe she can -”

“Winifred Burkle is gone. You are a fool if you think you have any chance of banishing me from this shell, from this _realm,_ ” Illyria interjects with a firestorm of blue in her eyes, overtly offended by Buffy’s suggestion to resurrect Fred. “Many have tried, and failed.”

_Okay. Someone write down, “Drama Queen.”_

Recognizing Illyria’s rise in emotion as potentially dangerous, Angel addresses the group.

“We should call it a night,” he says and Illyria storms out soon after, leaving a cerulean blur in her path. Buffy doesn’t know what to make of the way Angel looks after Illyria. It doesn’t seem romantic or friendly, but it’s not _not_ those things. Undoubtedly, he feels responsible for her.

Spike looks down at his clipboard covered in scribbles and illegible writing. “Good work, team,” he sighs.

“Same time again tomorrow?” Buffy’s voice rages with sarcasm. 

Angel gives her something close to a smile before following Illyria out, trying not to think about the fact that he just left her alone with Spike.

In an attempt to hide the nerves Buffy so easily brings out in him, Spike turns his body towards the door. 

“What are you doing for the rest of the night?” The words fly out of Buffy’s mouth in a panic before she has a chance to modify them to sound less desperate. 

A smile tugs at the corner of Spike’s mouth in return, whipping back around to face her directly. 

“Thought I might lurk around the neighborhood in search of little nasties to put a stake through.”

Buffy makes a face at his wording. Now that the others are out of the room, they can revert back to their dark, playful banter with ease. 

“You know, there’s a reason we call it ‘patrol.' It sounds less creepy and it takes less time,” she remarks with a hand on her slightly sore hip. Spike beams down at Buffy’s sinuous smirk and gives her a shrug.

“Lacks poetry, though,” he tells her. “Besides, I’m not exactly known for being efficient.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

After a short period of silence, Buffy eyes the door and wonders what would happen if she walked through it. 

_Would he follow me?_

_Would I stop somewhere down the hallway and follow him?_

_Would we simply bid a “goodnight” like two completely normal friends who definitely didn’t makeout last night?_

Spike doesn’t let it get that far.

“You know, as long as you’re here -” he voices through awkwardly pursed lips, a hand running over the tense part of his neck. 

“Yeah?”

“You could ... come with me."

“Sure,” she answers cooly and again, hopes the vampire didn’t detect the backflips her heart did in response to his question. “Lead the way.”


	24. Heaven's Bells

“Do you ever think about what would have happened if we got married?” Anya prods, tearing her eyes away from the television screen. “If we’d have gone through with it?” 

“All the time,” Xander replies, twirling a lock of her hair around his fingers. He buries his face into the crown of her head and inhales the sweet scent of lilies. 

_She always smelled like lilies._

“I think if we could do it all over again - the wedding - I’d wear my hair up instead of down,” she tells him, submerging her hand into the large bowl of buttered popcorn that sits in her lap. “What do you think? Up instead of down?” 

Xander hides a kiss in the perfect disarray of curls that sits on her head.

“I thought it was up for the wedding,” he mumbles and is suddenly flooded with memories from that horrible day in March. 

_Dad drinking too much._

_Spike skulking in the corner with some girl from The Craft._

_Tear stained cheeks ... that I’m responsible for._

“No, it was a half-ponytail. I don’t want half anything. I want full. I want _commitment_ ,” Anya explains before shoveling a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “Your hair says everything about your marriage. Who knows? Maybe if I had fully committed to up or down, you would have married me.”

“An, that’s not -” Xander interrupts himself, the thick silence afterwards forcing her to face him directly. “It was me. You were ... _perfect._ And I was an idiot.” He places his hands on each side of Anya’s face, pressing their foreheads together. “If I could do it all over, that’s exactly where I’d be.”

Xander stares into hazelnut eyes full of wonder and love and everything he never appreciated enough - and _prays_ he never wakes up. 

_“_ I love you, An.”

She bats her beautifully dark eyelashes in his direction before reverting back to their previous position. She nuzzles her face into his chest. 

“Now, I’m not saying it’s a game-changer,” Anya begins. “But if we ever get a re-do … I’m doing the up-do,” she concludes before running a hand through her hair.

“Check. One up-do, coming right up,” Xander beams, blinking away any tears that swell up in his eyes. 

“A beautiful dream,” whispers a voice that is _not_ Xander, _not_ Anya and _not human._ “It could be real if you let it.”

Xander’s prayer is not enough to keep him asleep. He wakes in a panic, arms coated in cold sweat and not wrapped around the woman he let slip through his fingers one too many times.


	25. Undone

Eyes peeled for strange or unusual activity (besides their own), Buffy and Spike meander around the bustling city of Cleveland with only one thing on their minds - each other. And yet, they continue to remain noticeably silent, particularly regarding any matters of the heart. If it was two or so years ago, Spike would almost certainly be spending the night pestering Buffy about their kiss, desperately trying to prove that it was motivated by more than simple lust. 

_But that was pre-soul Spike_ , Buffy notes. _Now he’s all … avoidy._

That isn't to say she takes issue with Spike’s new-and-improved, compassionate self - quite the opposite, in fact. However, given that his pestering days are over, the onus now seems to be on Buffy to spark a conversation about their … whatever they are. A task the Slayer isn’t exactly sure she’s up to.

_Come on, Buffy,_ she tells herself. _Say something. Anything._

“Should we hit the cemetery? Do a sweep?” 

_Nice._

“Right behind you, Slayer,” Spike answers swiftly. 

Buffy begins to worry that they’ll both take on cowardly roles tonight; that their kiss will be yet another intimate exchange between them that goes unaddressed and unexplored. In the spirit of monster hunting, Buffy decides to move past it for now.

“So, what’s the deal with the dominatrix?” 

“Intense little bugger, isn’t she?” Spike answers with a sigh. “Sorta grows on you, though.”

He scans the area around them for demonic activity but finds nothing aside from typical city features: sky-scraping buildings, loose trash and the occasional whiff of marijuana. 

“Sure, when she isn’t making cartoon birdies fly around your head,” Buffy huffs while tracing her finger along the brick wall beside her. “You and Angel failed to mention she was renting out a space in someone else’s body. Could’ve used a heads-up.”

“Sorry, love. Don’t like to talk about it much.”

She watches Spike’s gaze fall. 

“You cared about her,” Buffy realizes. “Fred.”

“Hard not to. She thought I was worth saving and all that. Even when the rest of Angel’s Avengers preferred me to stay a bloody ghost for all eternity,” Spike rolls his eyes in remembrance of his days as Wolfram & Hart’s resident Casper. “But Fred … she was special. Way better than what she got,” he concludes before shooting Buffy a look she has only scarcely seen. It’s love - but it’s not for her. 

She remembers catching a glimpse of it when he’d take care of Dawn or share a laugh with her mom, but never in regards to someone she didn’t know. In the past, Buffy could selfishly tell herself that Spike’s capacity for affection was reserved for her and her people only, but now, after seeing that _look_ , she realizes she clearly doesn’t know him as well as she thought she did.

The discovery throws Buffy into a spiral. 

She feels guilt for ever thinking his compassion for Dawn and Joyce was an act, a tool used to simply get closer to her; she feels jealousy because he fostered in-depth relationships with others, namely Fred, instead of choosing to come back to her.

But mostly, Buffy feels comfort in knowing she wasn’t Spike’s only reason for fighting to get his soul back - it was his desire to love and connect with the rest of the world.

“I’m sorry about what happened to her,” she tells Spike and observes closely as he pulls out a loose cigarette from one pocket and a lighter from the other. “Were you two … like … did you -”

“Me and Fred? Not a chance,” Spike interjects quickly before placing the cigarette between his teeth and lighting it. Buffy finds herself staring at his lips for longer than she should but their owner doesn’t seem to notice. “She fancied Wes. I fancied haunting Angel for the rest of our miserable lives,” he adds with a dastardly grin.

Buffy inhales deeply and can’t stop herself from exploring further.

“So, after you came back -”

“There was no one else, Buffy,” he avows into a cloud of smoke. “I reckon there never will be.”

Buffy’s eyes soften, her toes curl, her cheeks warm - but she says nothing. She doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t want him to know how easily his words undid her. 

“And you?” Spike asks after a thick silence. Buffy’s eyebrows narrow at her feet. 

“Huh?”

“Well, things obviously didn’t work out with The Immortal Wanker,” he can’t help but say with a skip in his step. Buffy is suddenly hit with the realization that she forgot to disclose the details of that situation. 

“Funny story - I never even met the guy,” she finally admits, causing Spike’s soft features to be swallowed by bewilderment. “Once I reached maximum celebrity status among the undead - _pause for hairflip_ \- the gang suggested we up my protection. Andrew and his _annoyingly_ active imagination came up with the idea to place a decoy of me in Rome, where she parties endlessly and dates what’s-his-name, I guess.”

“Aha,” says Spike as he tries to put the pieces together faster. 

“Pretty jealous of the other me, actually,” Buffy pouts to herself, imagining a girl who gets her name yet none of her responsibilities. 

Meanwhile, Spike is still processing the information Buffy just revealed to him. The lively blonde he saw in the nightclub a few months ago - the one he kept seeing every time he closed his eyes during the weeks that followed - was nothing but a stranger; another memory to hold onto because he couldn’t hold onto _her_. 

“But to answer the question you would’ve asked - no,” Buffy states plainly, bringing him back to reality. “There hasn’t been anyone else.”

She allows herself a glance at Spike and swears she sees red rush to his pale, bloodless cheeks. He was half-expecting her to dodge the question completely. 

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with the cookie dough speech I missed out on, would it?”

Buffy’s face flushes with confusion before remembering the talk she had with Angel in Sunnydale.

_I'm cookie dough. I'm not done baking. I'm not finished becoming whoever the hell it is I'm gonna turn out to be. I make it through this, and the next thing, and the next thing, and maybe one day, I turn around and realize I'm ready. I'm cookies. And then, you know, if I want someone to eat m — or enjoy warm, delicious, cookie me, then that’s fine. That’ll be then. When I’m done._

As Buffy mulls over that night in her head, Spike finds himself stuck on the same questions he had when Angel first explained Buffy’s analogy in L.A.

_Why give Tall, Dark and Dreary the “I’m not ready” speech and not me? Why send him away only to spend the night in my arms? In a basement that I made certain smelled like death?_

Spike’s unanswered queries are interrupted.

“Glad you and Angel became such good friends,” Buffy remarks sassily to hide her discomfort in knowing (and not knowing) all the conversations they (probably) had about her. 

“Hardly,” he scoffs. “It’s gonna take more than a couple’s vacation to Hell and back to make me like the guy.”

Buffy hides a smirk behind waves of blonde hair, knowing full well he’ll never admit he’s grown to care for Angel. But it’s enough for her to just _know_.

The Slayer and the vampire are now standing at a cemetery’s gothic gateway. As Spike pushes open the metal fence, it releases a high-pitched creak into the night - if there _are_ creatures lurking in the darkness, they will now certainly be alerted to their presence. 

“Subtle,” Buffy snarks quietly before playfully elbowing Spike’s chest. He wobbles backwards with an amused smile and follows Buffy into the unknown like he once did. Like he always will.


End file.
